


Maisie Wilkins and the Quidditch Key

by MadHairedMuggle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Background Relationships, Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, Ensemble Cast, Friendship, Gen, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt/Comfort, It is going somewhere I promise, Multiple Plotlines, Mystery, POV Multiple, Severus Snape Lives, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-05-29 22:46:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 61
Words: 133,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15083390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadHairedMuggle/pseuds/MadHairedMuggle
Summary: Five years after the defeat of Voldemort, Hermione Granger returns to Hogwarts as the school's new Potions Professor. She's prepared to deal with trouble-making students, exploding cauldrons, and the difficulty of being less than a decade older than most of her students … but she's not prepared for what she finds in her classroom.Why has Minerva McGonagall inveigled so many of her former students to return to Hogwarts as staff, this year of all years? Do the mysterious rumours about the dungeons have anything to do with the jinxed Defence Against The Dark Arts position? And can Hermione, Harry, Ron, Ginny, Neville and Luna unravel the mystery while steering a new crop of mischief-prone students in more productive directions?What readers have said:"Immensely enjoyable.""Amazing work!"and on ffnet:"This is lovely. I feel like I'm reading another Harry Potter book.""I adored this story.""I just binged this whole fic in one go.""Captivating"





	1. Chapter 1: Hermione Granger

**Author's Note:**

> A note on canon: This fic is definitely in the ‘Epilogue, What Epilogue’ camp, although I have taken some elements from the epilogue in weaving a possible future. The main divergence from canon is, of course, that Severus Snape survives. I did consider making him a talking portrait, but that gave Hermione an awful lot of work to do on her own.  
> Apart from that, I've tried to stay as close to canon up until the Epilogue as I can. Where the book canon and the film canon diverge, I must admit, I've chosen the version I like best, rather than choosing to always follow one or the other. However, whenever characters think back to events that occurred during the canon timeline, the dialogue is from the canon, and not written by me. 
> 
> I know where I _think_ this is going, but in case the characters have different ideas, I'll only add tags as they become appropriate. 
> 
> I, of course, own none of the characters I have borrowed to play with, nor the world in which they live.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione, returning to Hogwarts five years after the war

 

Hermione Granger did not hesitate.

Brainy bookworm though she was, she was a Gryffindor to her core: as subtle as a Bludger to the face, and as cautious as a bull at a gate. She spoke out, charged ahead, and crashed through. True, she had always had a greater tendency to pause for thought when it was warranted than either of her best friends, but she did not, ever, _hesitate_.

Yet with the door of the Potions classroom in front of her, she was hesitating now.

There was absolutely no reason to do so. The room was empty — she knew it was. Professor Slughorn had left a week ago. It was days before students would start arriving for the start of the new school year, and no other staff member would have a reason to be down here, in the dungeons, in this particular classroom.

Was it remembered nerves that held her motionless? Years of knowing that Professor Snape was on the other side of that door, ready to pounce on the slightest mistake and eager to humiliate anyone who displeased him?

 _No_. Because, as terrifying as he’d been — and he’d been terrifying, especially in those years when they hadn’t been entirely sure of his true loyalty — Hermione had never been frightened of his _classes_. Intimidated, yes, at times, by how very much he knew and how very paltry her own understanding of the subject was in comparison, but that had driven her to work harder and do better. She had at times feared him, but she had never feared Potions.

Even if she had feared him, even if she _had_ been one of the students who had to brace themselves to step over the threshold of his classroom, that would have been no reason to stand frozen with one hand on the door now.

 _Because he isn_ _’t there_. _You know he isn_ _’t there._

 _You_ _’re one of three people who can be surer than anyone else in the world he isn’t there._

 _Because you_ _’re one of the three people who stood there and watched him die._


	2. Chapter 2: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione reflects on the post-War years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue, What Epilogue? This Epilogue! A lightning tour through (some of) post-war Wizarding Britain

 

It had been five years.

Five long, occasionally awful, often difficult, but on the whole _good_ years in which the wizarding world in general and the Golden Trio in particular had picked up the pieces, put themselves back together, and moved on from the war. The grief of their losses had slowly — _all too slowly_ —  shifted from unbearable anguish through devastating agony to finally settle in a deep and abiding sadness. Harry had predictably become an Auror, and just as predictably, a good one. He also had occasional screaming nightmares, like just about everyone else who’d survived the Second Voldemort War, but Harry had grown up Muggle and, like Hermione and _unlike_ most wizards, had actually heard of PTSD. Harry and Hermione combined had persuaded not just Ginny but the rest of her family to seek help — although Hermione suspected that Arthur Weasley’s recovery from the devastation of his son’s death had been accelerated by his delight in participating as something so thoroughly Muggle as _therapy_.

They were all doing, more or less, fine. Hermione herself slept through the night five times out of seven now — six if she was lucky. She’d returned to Hogwarts to take her N.E.W.T.S’s and earned an O on every subject, blitzed through her Mastery in Potions under old Slughorn and taken a position with Malfoy Incorporated.

Working in the research department of Draco’s attempt to rebuild the family name and fortune had started out as a way to keep an eye on Draco, but it hadn’t taken her long to realise he really was a different man, these days. Something had changed in him when Harry had saved his life. He was still a long way from a good and selfless man, but she’d caught him being polite to the house-elves on occasion and she’d seen a copy of _The Times_ on his desk, flat and motionless beside _The Daily Prophet._ They weren’t exactly friendly with each other when their paths crossed, but they were civil.

Hermione had a nice salary, a routine that suited her, a flat in London and a busy social life, right up until the owl from Minerva had arrived.

It had been a long letter but it had boiled down to: _Slughorn is retiring. Do you want his job?_

Her answering letter had been just as long, but had boiled down to _Yes._

Or perhaps it had boiled down to _of course,_ because although she could have Mastered any one of the subjects she’d studied, she’d chosen Potions as much because of the man who’d taught her as her own affinity for the area. If Severus Snape had survived the war, Hermione might have chosen Potions as a speciality for the delight in being challenged daily by his keen mind, or she might have chosen Charms or Defence Against the Dark Arts and simply enjoyed intellectual sparring against him when their paths crossed. If he’d survived, he would have been teaching Potions at Hogwarts for as long as he’d wanted.

If he’d survived, then no doubt some other memory of the final battle would have replayed itself across her eyelids on her bad nights. Whatever it might have been, Hermione was utterly sure it could not have been as bad as that whispered _Look at me_ and the life fading from Severus Snape’s eyes.

But he had not survived. They had doubted his loyalty and then, finally, despaired of it, and all the time he had been constant. All along he had been the one who had played the hardest part. And he had died knowing that everyone who served the same cause he did believed him a traitor.

That was the worst of it. Remus and Tonks — she’d shed buckets of tears for them, for Fred, for all the people they’d lost during the last battle and in the horrible months before it. But Harry had told her what Remus had said to him, in those brief moments in the Forbidden Forest — that he knew his son would know one day that he had died fighting for a better world. That was true of all of them. Every one of them — except Severus Snape.

And from what Harry had said, they were together now, all of them. It made the horrible ache of missing Tonks a little easier, knowing that she was with Remus and that Remus was reunited with Sirius and James Potter — Mooney, Padfoot and Prongs together again. From what she’d heard from Harry, that wasn’t a companionship Snape would be welcome into, or want to join. _And who would want to spend their afterlife in the company of the woman you love watching her love a man you hate?_

So, Potions, in some oblique and futile apology to a man so horribly misjudged by everyone but Dumbledore. That being the case, when Minerva’s owl rapped on her window with his hooked beak there was only ever going to be one answer Hermione could give. _Will I teach the class he can never teach again?_

_Of course._

Steeling herself, she opened the door.


	3. Chapter 3: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione meets the last person she ever expected to see in Hogwarts

_It looks exactly the same._

It shouldn’t have. There should have been some immediately identifiable sign of Professor Snape’s absence, — a different desk, a change to the blackboard, a rearrangement of the ingredients stored on the shelves, _something_.

But it looked exactly the same, as if he’d simply stepped out for a moment. As she walked slowly past the old familiar desks, pausing by the one that had been her own, she could easily imagine that at any moment she’d hear the rustle of black robes and a cold and sneering —

“Miss Granger?”

 Shock trickled icy down her spine but she hadn’t survived the War by allowing herself to give in to shock. Her wand dropped from her sleeve to her hand and she raised it as she spun on her heel.

And it _was_ him. All in black except for the touch of white at collar and wrists, just like always, leaning against the door-frame. One eyebrow raised, dark eyes narrowed, just like always.  _Professor Severus Snape_.

_But Severus Snape is dead._

Whoever this was, it wasn’t Severus Snape.

“Or, I should say, _Professor_ Granger.” The impostor inclined his head slightly, the faintest sketch of a bow.

 _Revelio!_ The silent spell shot out from her wand and struck him squarely.

And made no difference.

“ _Revelio!_ ” she cried aloud this time, and when that again had no effect, she shouted it. “ _REVELIO!_ ”

“Now that’s over with,” he said with a slight sneer, “Perhaps it’s too much to hope you’ve remembered your manners?” He straightened and his weight shifted as if to take a step towards her.

Hermione levelled her wand. “Stay where you are!”

He stopped, regarded her levelly for a moment, and then resumed his previous stance, leaning against the door. It confirmed her conclusion that he couldn’t possibly be Snape. Yes, she was Hermione Granger, friend of the Boy Who Lived, and yes, she’d had plenty of unplanned and unwelcome practice in using offensive magic, but she’d seen Professor Snape duel. Neither she, nor the _real_ Severus Snape, could have any doubt that he could hex her into next week without her being able to stop him.

“If you move again, I’ll pin you to that door so hard you’ll have the carvings imprinted on your backside as long as you live.”

He raised an eyebrow. “If you’re planning to continue with your efforts to replace me, you really do need to work on your threats.”

Hermione summoned the nearest cauldron, caught it from the air and set it in front of her hard enough to rattle the jars on the table. Keeping a wary eye on the man by the door, she rapped her wand on its side to begin it heating to the correct temperature and selected the first of her ingredients. “I have no plans to replace you.”

“Wise.”

“Because _you_ , whatever appearance you’re currently wearing, have never taught Potions in this classroom.”

The eyebrow climbed a little higher, to what Hermione had always privately thought of as Threat Level 3. Threat level 3 boded ill for student who made even the slightest mistake in their potion preparation, but did not _necessarily_ predict an explosion. _Threat Level 5, however_ _…_ when Snape’s eyebrow reached Threat Level 5 Hermione had always tried to not even blink, lest she attract his attention.

But this man was not Professor Snape, however accurate the resemblance.

He dismissed her words with a flick of his long, pale hand. “You cast Revelio on me three times in a row. The only appearance I could possibly be wearing is my own.”

“Your magic — or the magic of the person who cast the spell on you — could be more powerful than my own.”

The eyebrow stayed where it was, but the corner of his mouth curled up. “Hermione Granger admitting there might be someone with more powerful magic than her own?”

“ _Or_ someone with one of those odd twists to their magic that turn up every now and again. Or using a new spell that —”

“Ah, not admitting it then.”

“Or, more likely, Polyjuice. Whatever the reason, you are _not_ wearing your own appearance. _Accio_ niffle toenails _._ ” The summoned jar zoomed across the room to her and she added three of the toenails, giving the liquid precisely two-and-three-quarters stirs counterclockwise.

“What are you brewing?”

“Thief’s Downfall,” she said shortly.

“Interesting.” The eyebrow settled at Threat Level Two, and Hermione wondered if that meant he was intrigued — and if that particular look had always meant that Professor Snape was intrigued, and she’d just never known.  “I wasn’t aware the goblins had let the recipe escape them.”

“They —” _haven_ _’t_. Hermione closed her lips on the word, reminding herself that as much as this man _looked_ like her old Potions Professor, he was not Severus Snape. There was no point trying to impress him with the fact that she’d discovered the recipe for herself, over many months of research and trial and error.

He folded his arms again and leaned more comfortable against the door-frame. “Tell me, Granger, did you perhaps get hit on the head during the final battle?”

She gaped at him. “I … yes, I did, actually, although what that —”

“Then that explains it.”

“Explains it? Explains what?”

“I remember you as being far more intelligent. A head injury —”

It slid straight past her guard. _Professor Snape thought I was intelligent_. And then the ache of pride vanished as she remembered that this man couldn’t possibly know what Professor Snape had thought of her. “You _bastard_!” She picked up the nearest object to hand — a jar of newt’s eyes — and threw it at his head.

His fingers barely moved, no wand in sight, and the spell was so quiet Hermione could barely hear his voice. “ _Protego duo_.” The jar rebounded and shattered harmlessly against the wall. “As I was saying. A head injury explains why you have not yet hit upon the simple and extremely obvious solution of simply asking me something that only Severus Snape would know.”

“Professor Snape and anyone who rummaged through his mind with Legilimens,” she snapped. 

His eyes narrowed and his voice went dangerously quiet. “Do you really think I could have managed to remain a double agent in the Dark Lord’s court for twenty years if there was a wizard alive who could defeat my Occlumency?” 

“I know that Dumbledore thought there was a chance there might be, or else he wouldn’t have kept his true plan secret,” she shot back. 

The eyebrow lifted almost all the way to Threat Level 5. “Oh? You think there might not have been some _other_ reason he felt unwilling to share with me a plan which, had it gone right, would have necessitated Potter killing me?”

It was the way he said _necessitated_ that did it: the menacing pause, the sibilance of the word, the way he clipped off the final sound. Hermione answered without thinking with the exact words she would have used if the man in front of her really had been Professor Severus Snape. “There’s no other reason he would have let you think Harry really had to die to defeat Voldemort.”

“You think too well of him.”

“And you think too little of him!” Hermione snapped, and then remembered she was not, after all, talking to Snape himself. “Whoever you are.” It was a weak coda, and from the twist of amusement at the corner of his mouth, he knew it.

“I disagree with your premise, but I concede its logic, given your starting point. Very well. Questions are out. I suppose I have no choice but to allow you to drench me in whatever noxious mess you create in your efforts to replicate Thief’s Downfall.”

“Which will reveal who you really are, because you are _not_ Professor Snape, and you’ve just proved it twice in one sentence.” She shot a glare at him and added the final ingredient. “Professor Snape would never allow me to drench him in _anything_.”

“You have me at wand point,” he pointed out.

“Professor Snape taught me Defence Against The Dark Arts. I’ve _seen_ him duel. He wouldn’t think for a minute that I could be any threat to him.”

“However, he might think that wizards duelling is usually quite hard on the immediate surroundings. We are in a room full of breakable jars containing expensive and in a few cases, irreplaceable ingredients.”

 _Actually, that sounded very much like what Professor Snape would think._ “I concede your logic,” Hermione said. “But don’t think that doesn’t mean I’m not going to unmask you.” A quick charm, another of her own discoveries, accelerated the potion’s maturation process. “And if you really were Professor Snape, you’d know — I have _never_ made a mistake in potions.” Wand in one hand, cauldron in the other, she advanced on the impostor.

His expression impassive, his finger moved slightly. “ _Accio_ handkerchief.”

For an instant, standing in front of him, she wasn’t quite sure she could do it. He looked exactly like Professor Snape, or at least, the Professor Snape of her classroom memories, before the last hard year had carved lines on his face that had never been there before. There was an eleven-year-old Hermione Granger inside her who absolutely quailed at the idea of tipping a cauldron of potion over him.

There was also an eighteen-year-old Hermione Granger who had faced Voldemort himself, believing Harry Potter was dead and all hope with him, and readied herself to fight to the death.

She hoisted the cauldron and flung the contents in his face.

He closed his eyes an instant before the liquid hit him and the next moment his features disappeared beneath the large, snowy handkerchief he’d summoned to his hand. Hermione waited, wand at the ready, as he slowly wiped the potion off, and then lowered the cloth.

Unchanged.

“Merlin’s pants!” She’d made a mistake in the brewing — she must have — the first one ever —

“As well as your threats, you might also like to invest some time into improving your swearing,” Snape observed. And then, as fast as a striking snake: “ _Expelliarmus_!”

Her wand flew from her grasp. “ _Protego_!” she gasped, knowing the spell would be weak — if it even took — without her wand. She braced herself for the next strike. _It will be an Unforgivable_. _Perhaps even a killing curse_.

His next words were nothing of the sort. “ _Accio_ Granger’s wand.”  The slender stick of vine wood flew into his grasp. A twist of the wrist of his free hand and his own wand was in his hand.

“ _Petrificus Totalus!_ ”

It was her best spell and even without her wand she had some hope, but he deflected it almost lazily. Hermione backed away as he raised his wand. _Reach the nearest desk — if I tip it over I can  —_

 _“Protego totalum!_ ”

She felt it settle around her, a great wave of magical protection, and realised that he had not cast the spell on himself but on the area where she stood.

“Now.” He lowered his wand. “You cannot hurt me, I hope I have given you at least some indication that I have no intention of hurting you. You have established that I am not under the effects of any charm or spell designed to change appearance. Can we, perhaps, discuss this like adults?” He said the last word with exactly the same slight sneer, the twist of contempt, as he’d always used to declare one of her potions _acceptable_ when she knew it was bloody well perfect.

“I saw Professor Snape die,” she said, ruthlessly repressing the actual memory of it. _Look at me_ _…_

The corner of his mouth twitched upwards. “The current evidence before your eyes suggests you did _not_.”

“Alright then.” _Play along. Stay on guard, play along, he_ _’ll make a mistake and you’ll have a chance._ It wouldn’t be much of one. She was still shaken by how fast he’d been, how quickly he’d disarmed her. _As fast as_ _… as fast as the real Professor Snape._ “How did you survive?”

The slightest shrug, just enough to make his black robes rustle. “I don’t remember.”

“Oh, _come on!_ ” Hermione snapped. “You have to do better than that if you expect me to believe you!”

“I _don_ _’t_ remember, but Madam Pomfrey found a phoenix feather in a fold of my robes.”

“Fawkes,” she breathed. “Of course! A phoenix’s tears can heal any wound. Basilisk venom has to be as deadly as Nagini’s was, but Fawkes saved Harry.” She realised she’d relaxed from her combat stance, poised on the balls of her feet. _If it looks like Professor Snape_ _… sounds like Professor Snape … duels like Professor Snape …_ She could hardly believe it, but logic led her inexorably to the conclusion. _This is Professor Snape._ “Of course he could save you!”

“Why he did we can only speculate.” Snape’s voice was so low Hermione could barely hear it.

“Professor Dumbledore told Harry that Fawkes came to _him_ because he’d shown great loyalty to him. To Professor Dumbledore, I mean.” She paused. “And so did you, didn’t you? I mean — you didn’t even try to save yourself. Giving Harry those memories —”

He interrupted her, fast as a striking snake. “Have you seen them?”

Hermione shook her head. “No. No-one has, except Harry. He wouldn’t even let Kingsley Shacklebolt look at them, and he’s the Minister. He tried to insist, but Harry was just very polite and very firm and said that if his word wasn’t good enough, Kingsley should just say so.” She hesitated. “But … people do know what was in them. I mean, generally. About …”

“About Lily Evans,” Snape said flatly. “I know.”

“I’m sorry,” she said gently.

 “I assure you, Professor Granger, I hardly desire your apology.” He weighed her wand in his hand. “Are you convinced enough to refrain from attacking me?” When she nodded, he tossed her wand to her. “So, loyalty to Albus, you think that was enough to save me?”

Hermione nodded again. She was starting to feel distinctly wobbly in the knees, so she drew out the nearest stool from beneath the desk and sat down.

“The same could be said for every one of the fifty people who died that day,” Snape sneered. “And yet that bird ignored them.”

“I don’t think Fawkes could do anything for spells or curses,” Hermione said. “Or raise the dead. Or he would have been able to help Dumbledore, wouldn’t he? It’s _wounds_ that phoenix tears work on.” She took a deep breath. “We really did think you were dead, sir. Or I would never have left you alone.”

He eyed her so narrowly that she thought he doubted her sincerity, and was surprised when he said, instead, “At least you seem to have grown out of your tendency to tearfulness.”

“It’s been five years.” Hermione turned her wand in her hand. “We’ve all changed.” _Although you don_ _’t seem to have._ “Professor, would you like to sit down?”

He raised an eyebrow to Three and said silkily, “In this classroom, Granger, I don’t need an invitation from you.”

“No, sir,” she said hastily. “It’s just … you do have a tendency to loom, rather.”

He looked rather pleased by her words. “Carefully cultivated, I assure you.”

“Yes, sir, I’m sure. But perhaps you might …”

Snape looked from her to the student-scale stools and then back, pointedly. Hermione had the sudden image of Professor Severus Snape perched on one of them, black-clad knees closer to his hooked nose than was comfortable, black robes draped around him, even more like a great black bird than usual, and was forced to suppress an entirely inappropriate giggle. _If I start laughing now, not only will he completely misunderstand, but I suspect I won_ _’t be able to stop._

“You may be right,” he said unexpectedly. “This is hardly a location conductive to a long conversation. Your office would be more appropriate.”

“ _My_ —”

He smiled slightly. “Yes, _Professor_ Granger, Potions Master of Hogwarts. _Your_ office. Lead the way.”

As much as she was convinced, now, that he was no impostor, she gripped her wand a little more tightly at the thought of walking down the dimly-lit dungeon corridors with her back exposed to him. “You, uh, you know the way as well as anyone.”

“The wards won’t recognise me,” he said with a hint of sourness.

“Oh.”

Hermione took rather longer than strictly necessary picking up her bag and making sure it was settled on her shoulder just exactly right, and despite her best efforts her steps dragged a little as she crossed the room. Snape stepped out of her way with the slightest inclination of his head, and waited.

“Well, then,” Hermione said, and ignoring every screaming instinct, stepped past him and through the door.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, and thanks for reading! I hope you're enjoying it so far - drop me a line and let me know!


	4. Chapter 4: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief détente.

It wasn’t a long walk to the office — _my_ office, Hermione reminded herself firmly, _my_ office — but with Snape ghosting along behind her in that soundless way he’d perfected over years of appearing directly behind misbehaving students at the worst possible moment, it was long enough to make her palms sweaty. She held her wand firmly, and put her other hand on the door. There was no handle. “Is there a password?”

“Weren’t you listening to Minerva’s explanation?” Snape sneered.

“To her —” _Come and see me first thing when you reach Hogwarts_ , Minerva McGonagall’s last message had said, when Hermione had owled back her signed contract. “I planned to go and see her once I’d had a look around.”

He sighed. “Ah, Gryffindor caution and clearheadedness once again makes itself known.”

Hermione turned and glared up at him. “Are you going to stand there being sarcastic, or are you going to tell me how to get in to the — to _my_ office?”

“Put you hand on the door,” he instructed. “Your wand hand. Can you feel the wards?”

She did as he directed, and concentrated. She knew what her own wards felt like, once she’d set them … she knew what the wards of other witches and wizards felt like, too, friendly and unfriendly both. There was nothing like that here, neither the slightly fizzing warmth of welcome or the cold sting of rebuff. _But something_ … something running beneath her fingers, cool and pale and _neutral_ like a net of silver wires, not just across this door but throughout the whole building. “I think so.”

“Tell it who you are.”

“I’m Hermione —”

“With. Your. Magic,” he bit out.

“With my magic.” _Okay. With my magic_. She closed her eyes and pushed a little bit against the silver net, wondering exactly how to do that but determined not to ask Snape to explain something he clearly thought was obvious. _Perhaps a patronus? Although I think people would have noticed by now if teachers had to conjure up a patronus every time they went into their offices. And what would happen if you were having a particularly bad day? Would you just be stuck in the corridor until your mood improved? Or —_

_Concentrate, Hermione! Tell it who I am, with my magic._

_But who am I?_ Unbidden, memories rose to the surface of her mind. Eleven-year-old Hermione Granger, all hair and teeth, hand raised high enough in the air she almost dislocated her own shoulder as Snape’s gaze passed over her as she was invisible and settled on Harry Potter. Sneaking into Snape’s storeroom under Harry’s invisibility cloak, searching for boomslang skin. Watching in disbelief and then suspicion as Harry managed to turn out a perfect potion when her own best efforts were only quite competent.

The memories streamed past without her looking for them. It was almost, but not quite, like being on the receiving end of Legilimency. Revision, exams, brewing Polyjuice both in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom and then, later, at 12 Grimmauld Place … returning to the half-ruined school as part of the shell-shocked year of 1999, the repairs taking place around them as they slogged through their N.E.W.T.S year … the slow and painstaking research into Thief’s Downfall that had won her the title of Master and the wish, over and over, that she could show her results to Professor Snape and ask for his advice …

Finally, last of all, her own hand holding a quill and signing a firm _Hermione Jean Granger_ across the bottom of a magical contract.

Suddenly the net beneath her fingers was no longer cool and silver, but a warm golden welcome, wrapping around her as well as the room in front of her. _And not just that room_. The Potions classroom was part of it, too, and other places in the school — the staff room, the library —

And there, in the middle of it, a spot where she could feel her welcome _should_ extend but didn’t, a blank, like a missing tooth.

Slowly, she took her hand from the door, and it swung open. “Teachers always talked about the school wards,” she said slowly. “I never really understood what that meant. I thought they were just … I mean, I thought the Headmaster set wards, and they were very strong. I didn’t realise …”

“That the castle has magic of its own?” Snape said, and there was no sarcasm in his voice. “Hogwarts is very old. It was built by very powerful wizards and witches, and strengthened and maintained by many more, some even more powerful than the founders.”

“Help is always given at Hogwarts, to those who ask,” Hermione whispered. “I thought that meant that Professor Dumbledore was watching over us.”

“And you never wondered how so many teachers managed to turn up so quickly when there was serious trouble?”

“You were all witches and wizards,” Hermione pointed out a little tartly. “I, quite naturally, assumed it was by magic. I just didn’t realise it wasn’t just _your_ magic.” She stepped through the door and glanced around, a little disappointed to realise that the changes that Slughorn had made to the office during his tenure hadn’t been magically undone with his departure. She turned back to look at Snape. “Do you need to be invited in?”

The corner of his mouth turned up a little as he followed her into the room. “I’m a _former_ Potions Professor, not a vampire.”

“Right, well.” Hermione put her bag down and tucked her wand into her sleeve. Somehow she knew that there was nothing he could do to hurt her in here, not now Hogwarts itself had recognised her, even if she was horribly wrong and he _was_ an impostor. “Would you like a cup of tea while you tell me why you let us all assume you were dead for five years?”

Snape sat down in one of the big, overstuffed chairs that had replaced the sleek black armchairs that had been in this office in his time with a precise flourish of his robes, crossed one leg over the other and steepled his fingers. _Making the point that however much this might now be_ my _office, he_ _’s not about to show me any deference about it._ “Thank you. Your house elf’s name is Tilney.” He paused, and then added very dryly. “Try not to force any clothes on her in your first day.”

“I’m not completely incapable of learning from my mistakes,” Hermione snapped. “Tilney?”

The house elf appeared with the characteristic crack of apparition, and then took a step back from Hermione, hands raised defensively. “Tilney is not wanting any clothes, miss.”

 _Oh for_ _…_ Hermione shot Snape a sour look, which didn’t seem to make a dent in his air of faint amusement. “I promise, Tilney, I won’t give you any clothes unless you ask me for them.”

“Tilney will never be wanting any clothes!”

“Then you’ll never ask me for them, and I’ll never give them to you. Alright?”

The house elf nodded until her head seemed to be in danger of coming off. “Tilney is very grateful, miss.”

“Tilney, _I_ _’d_ be very grateful if you could kindly bring Professor Snape and I some tea?” Her stomach growled a reminder that she’d been too nervous for breakfast. “And a snack, please.”

“It would be Tilney’s great pleasure to bring tea for Professor Snape!” The elf declared, and as an afterthought, “And miss, of course.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said brightly. “And, Tilney, please tell the other elves that I won’t try to give _them_ any clothes, either, unless they ask me to.”

“Given up the crusade?” Snape asked as Hermione took out her wand and moved Slughorn’s overly-decorated coffee table closer to the chair he’d chosen.

“No.” A flick of her wand and another chair slid through the air to settle across from his. “But I’ve realised that you can’t cure a life-time’s worth of magically-induced Stockholm syndrome by handing over a sock.” She sat down and gave him a level stare, keeping her wand where he couldn’t avoid seeing it. “Now. Where have you been for five years, and why?”

He eyed her wand. “Or you’ll _Crucio_ me until I give you some answers?”

From his expression, he didn’t take the threat seriously, and Hermione knew enough about the Unforgivable curses to know why. _You have to mean them_ , Harry always said.

“No.” Hermione folded her arms. “But I might try _Rictusempra._ ” From the look on his face, Snape took that as a much more alarming prospect, and Hermione suppressed a grin. She was about to press her advantage when Tilney reappeared with the tea and a plate piled high with cakes and sandwiches. “Thank you, Tilney. These look delicious.”

“They is Professor Snape’s favourites,” the elf said, and was gone.

“Milk?” Hermione asked, setting aside the threat to tickle him into revealing his secrets for the moments. He shook his head slightly. “Sugar?”

“Three.”

Her own eyebrows went up at that, but she added the lumps without comment, handed him the cup, and picked up her own. _It_ _’s not like wizards have to worry about tooth decay … although I would have picked him for black, with perhaps a squeeze of lemon._ Bitter and sour, that should be how Severus Snape took his tea. “Now. We’ve covered how you survived. Let’s get to why you’ve been pretending you _didn_ _’t_.”

 

  

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5: Severus Snape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus Snape considers which secrets to reveal - and which to keep.

If he was being entirely honest with himself, Severus Snape, former Potions Professor at Hogwarts and current … current _whatever he was_ , wasn’t entirely sure what had drawn him to the Potions classroom today.

 _But then, when was the last time I was entirely honest with anyone? So why break the habit of a lifetime?_ He’d dressed once again in the deep, unrelieved black that had been armour and disguise for two decades and shrugged into the teaching robes he no longer needed, telling himself _I need to make sure the Granger girl has at least some faint idea what she_ _’s doing before Minerva turns her loose on our current crop of first-year students._ Nothing led more certainly to utter disaster than an incompetent teacher mixed with inexperienced students combined with a room full of potential poisons and explosions.

The fact that she had spent five years believing him dead was an obstacle he hadn’t allow to cross his mind. That he was about to reveal the secret he’d insisted only Poppy Pomfrey and Minerva McGonagall share was a detail he’d allowed himself to miss. _After all_ , he had reminded himself as he stood outside the classroom door and listened to her light, quick footsteps tapping over the flagstones, _very soon it won_ _’t matter. And I have a responsibility to be sure this subject is taught more than merely competently._  

He’d pushed open the door, dropped an icy _Miss Granger_ at least in part to enjoy the look of shock on her face …

Shortly thereafter, wiping Thief’s Downfall from his face, he’d reflected that he’d expected her to be somewhat easier to convince. _My mistake. The reflexes developed by spending months at a formative age on the run from Death Eaters and Snatchers don_ _’t tend to fade._

And now she sat opposite him in one of Slughorn’s ridiculous chintz chairs, wand at the ready, demanding answers he hadn’t planned to give.

He sipped his tea to buy time, studying her. In some ways, five years had changed her quite a lot. When he’d seen her for what he’d thought, then, was the last time — standing behind Potter, the only one of them quick enough to conjure a flask to capture the memories Potter so desperately needed to see — she’d still been a girl. A girl grim and worn by the burdens she’d shouldered and the things she’d seen, yes, a girl with shadows in her eyes that no-one so young should have, but still, a girl.

Before him now sat a woman. The changes were slight — the set of her mouth, the way she carried herself, the calm confidence in her eyes — but they were there.  Her hair was still wildly curly, but now it was twisted up and piled atop her head in an artfully disarranged knot. She clearly still favoured those ridiculous Muggle clothes, and for her first day at Hogwarts had chosen a stunningly inappropriate ensemble of jean, thick-soled boots and a knitted top. _At least it has sleeves wide enough at the wrist for her wand._  

 _I suppose when one defeats a Dark Lord one earns the right to dress how one wants._ “You look well,” he said.

“Thank you. You —” She paused, but they both heard the unspoken _don_ _’t_. She studied him a moment. “How have you been? Have you been … ill?”

“No.” It was, strictly speaking, the truth. It wasn’t illness that burned through him these days, that sapped his strength and burned through whatever sustenance he could force down his throat. Already he could feel the brief burst of energy from his over-sweet tea ebbing away. It had been utterly foolish to waste his strength dressing so elaborately, it had been absolute folly to indulge the temptation to show her he was still the man who’d disarmed Gilderoy Lockhart as if the so-called expert in Defence Against the Dark Arts was no more than a student with a wand he hadn’t learnt to use. He’d pay tomorrow, that was certain. But for now … He drew on the self-control and iron will that had seen him through his years as a triple agent. “No, I haven’t been ill. Just in hiding.”

The crinkle of her forehead when she was puzzled was one thing that hadn’t changed a bit. “In hiding? From who? Everyone knows you were never really on Voldemort’s side.”

“Exactly.” Snape sipped his tea and waited for her to work it out. _Come on, Granger, you always were irritatingly clever._ “Everyone knows.”

“Oh! You mean … you’ve been hiding from Death Eaters. But … they’ve all been locked up. And they won’t be let out until they really change their ways, and it’s verified by Legilimency.”

 _Until_ , she said, not _unless,_ because even dealing with the Dark Lord hadn’t significantly dented Hermione Granger’s annoying incurable optimism. With slight surprise, Snape found he was glad of it. _After all, wasn_ _’t that what we fought for? A world where people didn’t have to be miserable, cynical, mistrusting bastards like me?_ “You’ll forgive me if I have somewhat less than absolute faith in the Ministry’s competence.” His arm ached with a reminder that he had a very good reason to doubt the Ministry of Magic’s claim to have tracked, arrested, and locked away every follower of Voldemort left alive.

“So you’ve just been lurking around Hogwarts for five years?” Her voice rose slightly, and he realised she was angry. “Letting us all think you were dead and mourning you and —”

He cut her off before she would work herself up any further. “I think _mourning_ might be a bridge too far, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t!” she snapped, eyes blazing. “We _did_ mourn you! Once we knew who you really were — _are_ — and what you’d done, how could we not? You saved our lives, more than once. You made it possible for Harry to finish destroying the Horcruxes. You were as much of a war hero — _more_ of a war hero — as anyone! And you never got the chance to just … just _be_ , and know you’d won. _Of course_ we all mourned.”

“How remiss of me to deprive you all of the chance to make yourselves feel better by _thanking_ me,” he shot back in his most deadly tone, the one he usually used for the Neville Longbottoms of the world. It had the desired effect: Granger flushed pink with humiliation. Snape crushed a faint twinge of remorse — she had meant well — telling himself that adding one more to the long list of undeserved cruelties he’d inflicted on Hermione Granger was preferable to listening to any more of her maudlin maundering over how unfair his life had been. _Imagine how long she_ _’d go on for if she knew that after five years of self-imposed imprisonment to avoid the vengeance of those I deceived, I find myself in exactly the same position as if I’d spent those years sipping coffee in a Venetian cafe watching the canals turn golden with the sunset?_

She’d find out eventually, of course. Now he’d revealed himself to her, that was inevitable. _With luck, though, I can keep her in the dark until my funeral. She and Minerva and Poppy can have a competition for who feels the most pity for poor Severus Snape._ The mental image of the three of them lined up before judges, striving to outdo each other, was almost amusing, although Snape was under no illusion he’d find it anything other than unbearable if he had to sit through it.

“There’s no need to _laugh_ at me!” Granger flared.

“I wasn’t,” Snape informed her. “So. Now we’re all _caught up_ , I presume you have your lesson plans already written?” When she nodded, he held out his hand. “I’ll review them tonight.”

For a moment, he thought she was going to refuse. _Gryffindor pride and stubbornness._ Finally she set her teacup down on the table and picked up her shoulder-bag. “Thank you,” she said with obvious sincerity. “I’d feel a great deal better about them if someone with your experience went over them.”

She held out a thick folder and he took it. “Your academic achievements are unquestionable, and I have no doubt you have prepared thoroughly.” Flipping open the folder, he found the contents cheerfully colour-coded. _Of course._

A wrinkle of bemusement appeared above her eyebrows. “Thank you?”

“However, the first few years of teaching can be a difficult learning process. Especially for someone young enough for the oldest students to remember them in the same uniform.”

The wrinkle turned into a frown. “Well, I can’t help —”

Snape held up his hand and she fell silent. “I was speaking from my own experience, Professor Granger. I was hired at the age of twenty-one. If you will permit me to give you some advice?”

“I’d be grateful for it.”

That was certainly a more manageable gratitude than waxing effusively lyrical over his supposed heroics. “Dress formally, and act formally. Cultivate distance between yourself and your students. Assiduously. You are their _teacher_. You are not their friend, and if you try to be you will do a great deal of harm and very little good.”

She looked him slowly up and down. “You’re telling me to be like you. I can’t be — and I don’t _want_ to, either. I understand _now_ that you were so … so …”

Snape couldn’t entirely suppress a smile as she all-too-obviously searched for a tactfully way to put it. _One of my Slytherins would have managed unsympathetic, disparaging and inflexible by now._ “Unkind? Unpleasant? Cruel?” She swallowed, and nodded. “Please, Professor Granger, disabuse yourself of any notion that I am, at heart, a kind individual forced by necessity to act a part with my students.  And be reassured that I am not advising you to model your teaching on mine — a task to which you would be singularly unsuited, even if you were to try.”

“Thank you,” she said, as if he’d paid her a compliment.

 _By Gryffindor standards, perhaps I have._ “Minerva McGonagall might be more suitable. And speaking of Minerva, as Headmistress she’ll have felt you join the Hogwarts wards. She’ll be expecting you.” He hefted the folder a little. “I’ll review this, and we can discuss your lesson plans tomorrow.” 

“But I have more questions — like, _where_ are you going to review my lesson plans? Who know you’re here? And —”

“In my study. Horace was never fond of living beneath the lake, and he was too relieved to ask any inconvenient questions when Minerva told him that they’d been unable to break the wards on my quarters. She knows, of course. It would have been impossible to keep it from her, given her position. And Madam Pomfrey. No others.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” she said earnestly. “I promise.”  

“As good as an Unbreakable Vow, given the Gryffindor sense of honour.”

She leaned forward. “I’ll swear, too, sir. If you’d like.”

 _She would, too_. _Give a Gryffindor a chance to make an ostentatious show of their honesty and they_ _’ll charge at it like an insulted Hippogriff, every time._ “First, Professor Granger, I am no longer _sir_ to you. Nor, for that matter, is Professor Flitwick. You are an adult, and a colleague. We are equals.”

She nodded, expression contrite. “I’m sorry. I’ll remember, Professor Snape.” Being Hermione Granger, curiosity very quickly defeated the contrition. “What was the second thing?”

“Unbreakable Vows are very serious magic, Professor Granger,” he said sternly, and if it was hypocritical of him to enjoy seeing her flinch a little like a scared student when he’d just lectured her on their equality, well, he was a hypocrite. “Don’t bandy them around lightly. What words would you have sworn?”

“That I’d never tell anyone you were here.”

“As well-thought out and carefully reasoned as I’d expect from a Gryffindor,” he sneered.

She went white, and then colour rushed into her cheeks. He braced himself for an explosion, and was pleasantly surprised when she managed to control herself. “Please explain why.”

“First, you would be swearing to keep _me_ secret. What if your first suspicions were, after all, correct? What if I am, in fact, an impostor?”

Granger gulped, but answered, “I would have made it impossible for me to raise the alarm.”

“Five points to Gryffindor.”

“So I should have said ‘I’d never tell anyone that Severus Snape was here’.”

“Correct. But think further. What if there was some emergency? What if I was in danger, and you couldn’t reach Minerva or Poppy to tell them so? You’d have to chose between, say, allowing me to burn to death in a blaze of fiendfyre or losing your own life.”

She frowned. “Fiendfyre? Is that really so likely?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Professor Granger, your experience at this school was limited to seven, admittedly rather action-packed, years. I assure you, with a student body of hundreds of magically gifted and variably self-controlled students, _anything_ is possible.” 

   She smirked a little at that. “I do concede your point on that one. But — ”

“Professor Granger, you are keeping the Headmistress waiting. We will talk tomorrow. For homework —”

In the act of rising, she froze. “You can’t give me homework!”

He ignored her. “Two feet on the Unbreakable Vow, with examples of _unintended consequences_.”

She glared at him, gave a sniff of irritation, and stomped from the room.

 _Finally_. Snape leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and waited for the strength to stand.

 

  

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione gets some answers, and some more questions.

 

“How long have you known?”

It wasn’t exactly how Hermione had planned to start her very first meeting with the Headmistress of Hogwarts on the very first day of her official employment, but the walk from the dungeons to Minerva’s office had given her time to shake off the lingering shock and work up a bubbling anger that absolutely demanded a good shout. She couldn’t imagine shouting at Professor Snape, particularly since he apparently still had the ability to make her feel like an under-prepared student, not to mention the fact that he’d made more sacrifices than anyone else alive to defeat Voldemort. But, once she’d almost shouted “Gang aft agley” at the gargoyle and stomped up the stairs to what she still thought of as _Dumblebore_ _’s office_ , there was a target for her fury right there behind the desk.

Minerva McGonagall looked startled. “Known what, my dear?”

Hermione kept her hands planted firmly on her hips, to minimise the chance that she’d be tempted to take out her wand. “That Professor Snape is alive!”

“Oh, my goodness.” The Headmistress put a hand to her heart. “How on earth do you know?”

“He popped up behind me in the Potions classroom!”

“Oh dear. Are you alright?”

“Am I _alright_? A man I thought we _buried_ five years ago just offered to review my lesson plan! Am I _alright_?”

“Yes, I quite understand. I meant — do you need Poppy Pomfrey’s help?” Minerva looked Hermione over carefully. “I assume you didn’t believe him.”

“I didn’t.”

“And defended yourself against what you must have assumed was an impostor.”

“Yes.”

“So are you hurt?”

“No.” Hermione sat down without being invited. _Being visited by the ghost of Potions classes past should give_ anyone _a pass from good manners._ “Nor is _he_ , for your information.”

It clearly hadn’t occurred to the Headmistress that Hermione could have inflicted an injury on Severus Snape. “No, well, I’m glad,” she said quickly. “I suppose you have questions?”

“Loads,” Hermione snapped.

“Yes.” Minerva’s shoulders slumped a little. “It wasn’t my idea, dear. Please believe me. But we did owe him rather a lot, and it seemed fair to allow him to choose the way we repaid the debt. Would you like some tea?”

“I’ve just had some.” Hermione knew she was being sullen, as if she was reverting to the type of teenage girl she’d never actually been, but she couldn’t seem to help it. Her whole body was boiling with a mix of emotions. An unfamiliar bubbling delight — _he_ _’s alive! He’s alive!_ — indignant fury — _how_ dare _they let us think he was dead_ — an urgent protectiveness like she felt towards Crookshanks — _it_ _’s not agreeing with him, being shut up, he looked really ill_ — injured pride — _did he think I couldn_ _’t be trusted to keep his secret_?

It was too much.

“Minerva, how _could_ you!” she said, and burst into tears as if she was still thirteen years old.

Putting her head in her hands, she tried to stifle the gulping sobs. She could hear Minerva moving around the office, the clink of china, liquid pouring. When Hermione finally composed herself enough to raise her head, the Headmistress was standing beside her.

“Handkerchief?”

“Thanks.” Hermione took the offered item, mopped her cheeks and blew her nose.

“Drink?”

Her mouth open to refuse, Hermione realised that Minerva was holding not a teacup but a glass. “Thanks.”

“Sometimes a wee dram is just what’s called for.” Sitting down in the chair across from Hermione, the Headmistress sipped her own drink. “I must say I’m surprised that Severus made himself known to you. He’s been adamant that Poppy and I must be the only people to know since the beginning.”

Hermione took a cautious sip of the amber liquid in the glass and recognised Muggle whiskey, not Firewhisky. “He said he thought there were still Death Eaters out there, who’d want to take revenge.”

Minerva nodded. “That was certainly true, in those first weeks after the final battle. It may still be — Severus certainly believes that it is.”

It was slightly surreal hearing Professor Snape’s first name used so casually, the way Hermione herself might say to Ron _Oh, Harry_ _’s running late_. Professor Snape had been aloof and distant, he’d been intimidating and then frightening, and then he’d been dead. He _hadn_ _’t_ been the sort of man Hermione had ever imagined to have friends who thought and talked about him informally, friends he trusted with his most important secret. “We wouldn’t have told anyone, though. Ron and Harry and me, we’re definitely not Death Eaters and we wouldn’t have told _anyone_.”

“I know,” Minerva said. “But it wasn’t up to me, was it? It was his secret, not mine.”

“Why didn’t he _trust_ us?” Hermione burst out. “Hadn’t we proved ourselves?”

“Hermione, if you’d known, could you have kept it from Mr Potter?”

“Yes!” she said, and then paused. “Well. Maybe. But Harry deserves to know, too.”

“I agree.” Minerva set her empty glass down with a faint click. “But Severus is content for young Mr Potter to believe him dead and buried.”

“Is he ill?” Hermione blurted. “Because he looks … ill.”

“That’s a question you should direct to him, dear.”

 _Yes_ , that meant, because if Snape was in good health the Headmistress had no reason not to say so. “I will, then.” _Although I doubt I_ _’ll get a straight answer._ “Is there anything else I should know? That you can tell me?”

Minerva gave her the slightest hint of an approving smile. “That’s an excellently worded question. You’d have done better to phrase it in two distinct parts, though.”

 _Two feet on the Unbreakable Vow, with examples of where it has gone wrong._ Words, and the ways they could both convey and conceal meaning. “Minerva, is there anything else I should know?”

“Yes, there certainly is.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“There’s a great deal I can tell you,” the Headmistress said. Hermione thought she could hear a hint of disapproval in her tone.

“Is there anything else about Severus Snape —” _Not precise enough._ “Is there anything else you can tell me about Severus Snape being still alive?”

Minerva gave a dainty sniff. “Better. I can tell you that Poppy and I agreed with him at the beginning that secrecy was essential to his safety, but that lately, we have come to believe it is counterproductive.”   

  “Counterproductive? Why?”

Minerva folded her hands. “I can’t go into specifics, dear.”

“Right.” Merlin’s beard, it was like that last horrid year of the War again, chasing hints and clues down the twisting corridors of a wizard’s mind. _Counterproductive. Not just_ unproductive, _which would imply that it was no longer necessary, but_ counterproductive _, which means the secrecy is not just no longer essential to his safety but is actually endangering it._

 _And she didn_ _’t tell me he_ wasn’t _ill._

“I think I understand,” Hermione said. _He needs help that Minerva and Poppy Pomfey can_ _’t provide_. “Do you have any theories as to why he decided to show himself to me?”

“I do,” Minerva said, and nothing more.

“Do you think it’s because he wants me to help him in some way?”

Minerva shook her head. “No, dear. I’m sorry.”

“Why then?”

“That’s a question you’d have to ask him,” the Headmistress said for the second time.

Hermione looked at her closely. “Minerva, are you bound by an Unbreakable Vow?”

Minerva smiled. “No, dear. Only by promises of the sort one makes to friends.” She eyed her empty glass regretfully. “Which are just as binding, and can be just as foolish.” She shook her head slightly, as if dislodging an unwelcome thought. “Now. I presume you’d like to know where your rooms are?”

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione settles in, and gets another surprise

 

“Here we are, dear.” Minerva McGonagall flung open the door and gestured for Hermione to precede her.

Hermione stepped through the doorway and turned slowly, surveying her new rooms. She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt to learn that she would be living in Ravenclaw Tower. It was a relief, certainly, not to have been led to the dungeons. Now that she knew who still lived in the Potion Master’s quarters, though, she felt somewhat guilty about that relief. _Not only does he have to_ live _down there, he_ _’s for all intents and purposes a prisoner._ Logic told her that his rooms couldn’t be too inhospitable, or Horace Slughorn would never have put up with them when he’d been Potions Master the first time. _Still_ …

She put the image of Professor Snape trapped in an underground cell of his own choice firmly aside, and looked around. They stood in a large sitting room with three big windows looking out over the grounds. One of them had a deep window seat that could have been expressly designed for long afternoons reading. The walls were lined with shelves for her books, and two comfortable-looking armchairs sat before the fireplace. There was even a fat cushion for Crookshanks, who she’d let out of his carrier as soon as they’d gone through the Hogwarts Gates.  He had stalked off in the direction of the kitchens, but Hermione knew that he’d find her when he wanted to.

“It’s lovely,” she said honestly. _And I_ _’ll be close to Professor Flitwick and Professor Vector._

A door opened onto a small bedroom, almost filled by a lovely big bed that left just enough room for a wardrobe and another door, this one to an _en suite_.

“You can of course change the decor to whatever suits you,” Minerva said. “I doubt you’ll have any trouble with the necessary transfigurations, but if you do, just let me know. Or ask the Room of Requirement, if you’d prefer.”

“Thank you.” Hermione ran a hand over the dustless shelves. “Tilney has kept things spotless.” She was certain the house elf was listening. “Minerva, can I ask for your advice?”

“You can always ask,” Minerva said, a hint of reproach in her tone.

 _What did I — oh_. “I’m sorry,” Hermione said. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with my parents, since … everything.” _Since I found them in Australia, restored their memories, and explained that we_ _’d all been in life-threatening danger for twelve months._ “I’ve picked up Muggle habits. What I meant to say was, I would like your advice on what to wear.”

“Teaching robes are mandatory,” Minerva said.

“I know, but …” Hermione looked down at the scuffed toes of her sneakers. “Is this room protected against eavesdropping?”

Minerva raised her eyebrows. “Of course. It wouldn’t do for the students to be able to spy on their teachers in their private moments, would it? And don’t think a few won’t try it.”

“What about other teachers, or house elves?” Hermione asked. “Teachers apart from you, and Madam Pomfrey, if you see what I mean.”

“I do.” The Headmistress’s gaze sharpened. “And you’re wise to be cautious.”

“Okay, then.” Hermione bit her lip, thinking. “ _Someone_ said to me that I should dress more formally, when I teach. To create distance between myself and my students, since I’m so young.”  She shrugged. “But I don’t want to intimidate my students.”

“A little intimidation is a good thing,” Minerva said. “ _You_ never needed additional motivation to try your best, but think of some of your fellow students.”

“I am,” Hermione said simply. “I’m thinking of Neville. He would have done so much better if he hadn’t been so terrified. His work in Potions improved beyond measure when he was taught by Professor Slughorn, and he was brilliant at charms when it was Harry teaching him, with the rest of Dumbledore’s Army.”

“Then if you have a class full of Neville Longbottoms, you’ll know how to handle them,” Minerva said a bit sharply.

“I’m sorry, Professor. I didn’t mean to imply …” Hermione trailed off. _I did, though. I did mean to imply that Minerva was one of the teachers who didn_ _’t get the best from Neville._

“And what if you have a class with one Neville Longbottom, a couple of Draco Malfoys, a Crabbe, a Weasley of any description, and a Hermione Granger?” Minerva asked. “How do you think that class would go, if you model your teaching of _that_ class on what would be best for the student with the least confidence, who needs the most gentle encouragement and the least discipline?”

Hermione imagined Fred and George Weasley being told kindly that they were making a good effort, and just needed to focus their attentions a little more on their class-work. “Yes. I see.”

The Headmistress’s expression softened. “You will find your own way, Hermione. No-one is expecting you to be Professor Snape, or Professor Slughorn, or me. Since I know you, I know you’ve spent a great deal of time thinking about teaching since I sent my first owl. Think of the teachers you believe got the best from their students, _all_ their students, but more importantly, think about _why_.”

Hermione nodded. “And my clothes?”

Minerva smiled a little. “You will have to answer that question for yourself, my dear. What you wear as a teacher should reflect the kind of teacher you wish to be. Once you have determined exactly what that is, you will know what to wear.” She looked around the room again. “I’ll leave you to settle in. Tilney will help you move your things from your previous home.”

Left alone in her new rooms, Hermione wandered around for a few moments before calling for Tilney. _Your previous home_ had given her a pang. She liked her flat, small though it was. It was the first place she’d ever lived that was entirely her _own_ , not her parents’ home, not school, not the Burrow, not Grimmauld Place … she’d found it, she’d signed the lease in her own name, she’d chosen every item of furniture and she alone had decided where to put them.

Decorating the rooms chosen for her by Minerva McGonagall wasn’t quite the same, and until she’d looked around at what would now be her home, Hermione hadn’t realised quite how much that would matter to her.

Taking her wand from her pocket, she pointed it at the nearest armchair and Transfigured it from brown leather to tan suede. _There_. The rooms were _hers_ now, she’d put her mark on them. Tucking her wand away again, she called for Tilney, and began the task of moving in.  

With Tilney’s help, it didn’t take long. The house elf zipped back and forth between Hermione’s flat and her new rooms, bringing boxes each time, until Hermione had almost stopped jumping with each _crack!_ of Apparition. By the time all her belongings had arrived in Hogwarts she had half her books shelved.

“Tilney can be doing that, miss,” the house elf said reproachfully.

“I know,” Hermione said. “But I have a particular order that I want them in, and it would take a long time to explain it. It would be much more helpful for you to unpack my clothes and things.”

That mollified Tilney, and in a remarkably short period of time Hermione was completely unpacked. She Vanished the empty boxes with a flick of her wand and a muttered _Evanesco_.

“Will miss be wanting anything else?” Tilney asked.   

  Hermione checked her watch. The afternoon had flown by. On a normal day, it would be nearly time for dinner. However, she had never been at Hogwarts _before_ the first day of the year. “Do teachers eat in the Great Hall over the summer?”

“Some do, and some do not, miss. If miss is wanting to have her dinner in the Great Hall, it will be Tilney’s pleasure to bring her everything and anything she wishes.”

A large part of Hermione wanted to ask Tilney to bring her dinner to her rooms and put off taking her seat at the head table for the first time until, perhaps, breakfast. That part, however, was drowned out by the sensible Hufflepuffish part of her that knew it would only be harder the longer she waited, and by the strong Gryffindor desire to face the challenge as soon as she could, and prove herself. “Thank you. And Tilney — you do the laundry with your magic, don’t you?”

“Tilney is _allowed_ to —”

“I know, I know, I’m just asking,” Hermione said quickly. “I only wondered — if I need new clothes, is that something you can help me with?” 

“Tilney could _fetch_ the clothes for miss.” The elf paused. “If miss was being very clear that the clothes were for miss, and not for Tilney.”

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. _Am I ever going to live down S.P.E.W?_ “Look, Tilney. I hereby declare that no item of clothing of mine, or in my possession however temporary, that I ask you to pick up, carry, fetch or do anything else to, is a gift to you, unless I specifically say otherwise. Alright?”

Tilney looked much relieved. “Tilney thanks you, miss.”

“So you can pick up my shopping, but you can’t create new clothes for me?”

“That would take a wand, miss.”

 _And house elves are forbidden wands, although with a bit of teaching and their natural magic they_ _’d be able to do extraordinary things._ Which was exactly why they were forbidden, of course. _Can_ _’t have our servants realise they are our magical equals._

She sighed. _One thing at a time._ “Of course. I’m sorry, Tilney, I should have realised. It’s just that you’re all so good at things that it takes _me_ a wand to do, I thought that maybe there were other things you could do.”

“Miss will be getting new clothes?” Tilney asked hopefully.

Hermione’s mouth twisted a little wryly. “You too? Everyone thinks I need a new wardrobe.”

“Is good for witches and wizards to look like witches and wizards,” Tilney said firmly.

“Yes, I suppose so.” Hermione flopped down in the newly-tan armchair. “The problem is, I don’t know what that wardrobe should _be_.”

“Tilney can help with _that_ , miss!” The house elf vanished and was back before the noise of her Disapparition had faded. Her arms were filled with slim books about the size of the magazines Hermione was familiar with from the Muggle world.

When Tilney held them out to her and she took them, Hermione realised that they _were_ magazines, with stylishly-dressed witches and wizards gazing from the covers in a variety of poses. “Fashion magazines! Tilney, you’re brilliant! These are just what I need!”

Hermione spent a happy half-an-hour flipping through the magazines, happy to have something to take her mind off all her questions about Professor Snape and his unexpected liveliness. Most of what she saw was far too ornate for her tastes, and decidedly impractical, especially in a Potions classroom. _I suppose these magazines bear as much resemblance to what witches and wizards wear for their every-day as the same sort of magazines in the Muggle world bear to what Mum and Dad wear to work._ Still, there was one sleek green robe that wouldn’t have looked out of place at an expensive Muggle restaurant that gave her a few ideas, although she wouldn’t be wearing Slytherin colours, thank you very much. 

 _And actually, since I_ _’m not Head of a House and unlikely to be so for quite a few years, I’d better rule out any House colours at all._ Although the House colours in a different tone would probably be alright. _After all, Minerva wears green all the time, even when she was Head of Gryffindor and not the Headmistress._

The magazines slid to the floor as Crookshanks leapt onto her lap. He headbutted her hand and she scratched behind his ears. “Hello, you. Find anything interesting?”

He mewed an answer, and Hermione wished for the umpteenth time she could understand him, the way Sirius Black had.  She’d never had any doubt that Crookshanks was extremely intelligent, of course, but after his extraordinary feats the year Sirius Black had come into their lives, she’d made sure to keep him fully informed of what was going on.

 _If only he could do the same._ “I met someone interesting today,” she said carefully, mindful that she hadn’t set her own wards against accidental or deliberate eavesdropping yet. “I’ll tell you all about it later. Oh, and I think I need to get new clothes. Apart from that, nothing happened.” She stroked him. “How about you? Do you like our new home?”

He jumped from her lap and for a moment Hermione thought he was going to demonstrate his disapproval by stalking from the room, but instead he trotted over to the window-seat and jumped up. Selecting a cushion, he settled himself regally, bushy tail curled around his paws.

“Meets with your approval, then. Good.” Hermione gathered the magazines and set them down beside the chair. “And now I have to go to dinner. Would you like to come?” He gave a slow blink, and stayed where he was. “Alright then. _Accio_ teaching robes!”

They sailed to her hand with a flap and a flutter and she settled them over her shoulders.

Teaching robes weren’t really all that different to student robes, or to the formal robes she’d worn to graduate or to receive her Order of Merlin — it was just a question of a little more length and the detailing — but they felt very heavy as Hermione made her way down to the Great Hall and she had to keep stopping herself from adjusting them. It was a very long walk from the doors to the teacher’s table, as long as the walk up to the Sorting Hat had felt on her very first day, and just as she had then, Hermione kept repeating to herself _you belong here, you belong here._

_Minerva McGonagall thinks you belong here._

And then, surprising thought, _Professor Snape thinks you belong here._

He’d been sarcastic, mocking and acerbic — but he’d wanted to look over her lesson plans, and he’d offered her advice. Hermione couldn’t imagine that Professor Snape would have any hesitation in telling her she should resign and go home, if that’s what he thought. 

She raised her chin a little, smiling, as she climbed the few steps to the platform holding the high table. _You belong here._

And then her jaw dropped.

“Hermione!” Ron Weasley cried, and seized her in a bear-hug. “Blimey, I didn’t expect to see _you_ here!”

 


	8. Chapter 8: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old friends reunite

“Ron!” Hermione hugged him back. _Merlin, it_ _’s good to be back to normal with him._ After two years they’d mutually accepted that their romantic relationship wasn’t working for either of them. That had been followed by a period of awkwardness that had been just awful, but thankfully that was now far behind them. _Friends again, like we used to be._   “What are you doing here?”

“Teaching!”

“Teaching?” She pulled back a little to see if he was serious.

“Always the tone of surprise,” he said, laughing. “I’m —”

“Ahem,” Minerva said pointedly, and when they turned she gave a meaningful glance to the empty seats at the end of the table.

Ron grabbed Hermione’s hand and tugged her in that direction. “Sit with me, I’ll tell you all about it.”

Sometimes Hermione felt as if three-quarters of her life had been spent being dragged somewhere by either Ron or Harry in the pursuit of some madcap scheme, but since in this case it was in pursuit of dinner, and she’d had every intention of sitting with Ron and hearing all about it, she didn’t protest.

She took the seat next to Professor Flitwick and Ron sat on her other side. “Professor Flitwick,” she said. “I’m so glad to see you.”

He rose slightly from his seat and offered her a gentlemanly half-bow. “And I you, _Professor_ Granger. And Professor Weasley, of course.”

Ron grinned at him. “Hullo. I’ve got a dozen questions for you, Professor, but of you don’t mind, I’ll save them for office hours.”

“I’d be delighted for you to save them,” Flitwick said.

Hermione’s stomach gave a low rumble and she eyed the still-empty serving dishes longingly. “Do we ask for what we want, when there aren’t students here, or …?”

“The house elves will serve when all the teachers who are expected have arrived,” Flitwick said.  “Of course, there’s no rule against asking for an appetiser.”

Hermione looked up and down the table. All the plates in front of the teachers — _the_ other _teachers_ , she reminded herself — were empty. “No, that’s — I can wait.” Her stomach gave another growl, and she felt herself blush.

Flitwick gave Hermione a twinkling smile. “I myself would very much like to order a dish I learnt of just last year, but it’s supposed to be shared. Would you and Professor Weasley help me out?”

“Absolutely,” Ron said fervently.

“Excellent.” Flitwick addressed his plate. “Please bring me some ‘nachos’.”

When it appeared a second later, the serve of nachos was absolutely perfect — not even the best Muggle Mexican restaurant could have done better. The cheese glistened with just exactly the right amount of melt, the avocado and sour cream sparkled with freshness and the steam rising from the dish brought the tantalising scent of perfectly-cooked beef and spices.

Ron reached out eagerly while Flitwick was still gazing at the food with a beatific smile. Hermione grabbed his wrist. “Professor Flitwick, where did you come across nachos?”

“Zagreb,” Flitwick said. He plucked a corn-chip up as delicately and precisely as he wielded his wand and scooped up an equal measure of each ingredient.

“So teachers can order any food they want?” Hermione asked. Now Flitwick had started, she released Ron to do the same.

“Absolutely.” Flitwick selected another corn-chip carefully. “You’d be wise, however, to give the house elves advance warning of any special foods you might like. Otherwise you’ll have a bit of a wait.”

“Doesn’t that make a lot of extra work for them?”

“There aren’t so very many of us,” Flitwick pointed out. “And part of their magic is to keep meals ready no matter how early they’re prepared.”

The demands of Hermione’s stomach would no longer be denied. She scraped a portion of the nachos onto her plate with her fork and began to eat.

“And the leftovers?” Ron asked.

“The house elves eat them,” Flitwick explained.

Ron grinned. “Brilliant! I can order all my favourites and not feel guilty about it.”

Flitwick chuckled. “Indeed.”

Once she’d got a few mouthfuls down, Hermione’s stomach stopped protesting and she could think about things other than her hunger. “So you’re teaching, Ron? What are you teaching?”

“Defence Against the Dark Arts,” Ron said proudly.

“Defence Against — but Ron! That position is still cursed!”

Ron leaned closer to her and lowered his voice. “That’s why I’m here. Me and Harry. Partly to teach the course and mostly to break the curse.”

“Harry?” Hermione stared at him. “Harry’s teaching D.A.D.A with you?”

  “Yeah, brilliant, isn’t it? We’re on official leave from the Aurors. He’ll get here tomorrow. We’ll each teach half the time, and work on the curse half the time.” He studied her. “You don’t look particularly enthusiastic.”

“No, Ron, it’s just —” Hermione tried to find words that were both tactful and true. “I mean, this curse, it’s really old. _Dumbledore_ couldn’t break it.”

“Dumbledore couldn’t kill Mouldyshorts, either, but _we_ did,” Ron pointed out.

Hermione paused, fork halfway to her mouth, and then set it down. “That’s true. Dumbledore said the position has been cursed ever since he refused it to Tom Riddle. But he’s quite, quite dead, and still, no-one can hold the position for more than a year.”

Ron nodded. “Which means either it isn’t Tom Riddle’s curse …”

“Or it’s embedded in an object!”

“There before you, Hermione,” Ron said. “I _am_ an Auror now.”

“I know.” Hermione looked down at her plate, excitement disappearing as quickly as if it had never been. “I just … I’m sorry, Ron. I know you know your job.”

He nudged her. “You just can’t help being a know-it-all?”

Hermione smiled, and nodded, and ignored the sudden ache in her throat. _I can_ _’t help being a know-it-all_. But what had she’d ever been, all the way through their school years, but the know-it-all?

 _And now Harry and Ron are Aurors and privy to secrets I can_ _’t share … now I’m the know-_ nothing _._

It was pointless to feel hurt. In fact, she’d planned it this way. Harry and Ron going off to train to be Aurors, and Hermione herself taking a sharp turn to go back to Hogwarts for her final year even though they wanted her to join them. _Time for them to stand on their own two feet_ , she’d thought, knowing that if she went with them everything would be exactly the same, at least as far as the boys leaning on Hermione to do anything that involved books.

“I’d like to help, though,” she offered.

Ron grinned at her. “That will be brilliant. You, me and Harry … Neville, Luna and Ginny — Dumbledore’s Army rides again!”

Hermione stared at him. “Neville and …”

“Hello, Hermione,” said a familiar dreamy voice.

Hermione turned to see Luna Lovegood, dressed in pink and silver with an elaborate necklace of what seemed to be silver foil and cutlery, smiling across the table at her. Behind her stood loomed the huge bulk of Hagrid, looking larger and wilder than ever in contrast.

“I’m glad to see you’re here,” Luna said matter-of-factly as she made her way around the table to take the seat next to Ron.

“I’m glad to see you!” Hermione said. “And you, Hagrid.”

He beamed down at all of them. “Almost like old times, isn’t it? Except you’re up here, instead of down there.” His smile dimmed a little. “And we’re missing a few, o’course.”

 _Not quite as many as you might think_. Hermione felt a trickle of her earlier anger at Severus Snape. Hagrid had been as guilt-ridden as anyone to learn how they’d misjudged Snape. _I should know better than to judge by what things_ look _like, me,_ the half-giant had sobbed. _If anyone should know that,_ I _should._

Luna cocked her head to one side. “Hermione? Have you got a Wrackspurt?”

Hermione made herself smile. “No. It’s just — what Hagrid said. It’s like old times, except it isn’t.”

“I miss everyone too.” Luna paused. “Not Voldemort, of course. Not even a Billigype could make nostalgic for him.” 

“A … Billigype?” Hermione asked.

“Haven’t you heard of them? I suppose they are very rare in this part of the country. They live in the spines of photograph albums, you see, although they prefer warm climates. Then when someone looks at the pictures in the album the Billigype sends out powerfully strong feelings of sadness and nostalgia until you can’t help but cry.”

“I’m not sure I really want to know,” Ron said, “but what do the Billigypes do then?”

“Nothing,” Luna said serenely.

“That’s a relief,” Hermione said. “But what are you doing here, Luna? Are you teaching, too?”

Luna turned wide eyes on her. “Are you teaching? I suppose that was obvious, wasn’t it, with you sitting up here. No, I’m helping Hagrid a bit, while I work on my thesis on Thestrals. I wanted to do it on the Crumple-Horned Snorkack, of course.”

“Of course,” Ron said a bit sarcastically, but he said it quietly.

“And I’m helping Hagrid with his classes.”

“Oh, good.” Hermione was relieved to think that there’d be someone to moderate Hagrid’s tendency to overlook some of the more dangerous aspects of the creatures he loved so much. _And he_ _’ll make sure she doesn’t start teaching the students about any creatures that don’t actually exist._

It was a very clever arrangement that Minerva McGonagall had created, almost Slytherin in its subtlety.

“ _Here_ _’s_ Neville, at last,” Ron said happily as a familiar tall figure strode through the doors. “I think he needs another Rememberall if he’s ever going to get to meals on time.”    

“He’s just happy in his work,” Luna said. “Don’t worry, Ron. Once the term starts, they won’t wait meals for the staff.”

Hermione waved to Neville as he reached their end of the hall and his face lit up as he took in who was sitting there.

Hagrid stood up. “I’ll move along, Neville, so you can sit with your friends.”

“You’re our friend, too, Hagrid.” Luna tugged on his arm. “Please sit next to me, or I’ll be sad.”

Hagrid smiled. “Well, alright then. You don’t mind, Neville?”

“Of course I don’t.” Neville took the end seat. “Sorry I’m late, the mandrakes were having a party and I lost track of time.”

Hermione leaned forward to see him past Hagrid. “Are you doing your Mastery in Herbology?”

Neville grinned. “Did it last year. Now I’m doing some experimental cross-breeding, and Professor Sprout is teaching me how to teach.” He lowered his voice. “She says I’m good at it, too. She wants me to take over when she retires.”

“I bet you’re brilliant at it,” Ron said, and then addressed his plate. “Fish and chips. And sausages. And roast beef, with gravy and everything else. And —”

“Ron, you’ll never eat all that,” Hermione protested.

He grinned. “House elves get the left-overs, remember? Don’t you want the poor house elves to be well fed? And I’ll have toad-in-the-hole as well, thanks.”

Hermione ordered Shepherd’s Pie. “I bet you’re a brilliant teacher, too, Neville. You’ll have to give Ron and I some tips.”

“Nah, I reckon Harry and I know what we’re about,” Ron said with his mouth full. “We’ll just do what Remus Lupin did, except without the ‘turning into a wolf every full moon’ part.”

Hermione sighed. “It’s not that simple, Ron. I’ve been reading up about educational theory — ”

“Of course you have,” Ron said fondly. 

“It’s important! In the Muggle world, people go to university for _years_ to learn how to be teachers. You can’t just wander into a classroom and think that because you know the spells, you know how to teach them as well!”

“If you couldn’t, Professor McGonagall wouldn’t have hired us, don’t you think?” Ron speared a sausage with his fork. “She started teaching when she was younger than we are, did you know?”

“So did Professor Snape,” Luna put in.

“I’m not sure Professor Snape is the best example,” Neville said. “Although you’d look quite good in dramatic black, swooping around, Hermione.”

Ron shrugged. “Anyway, we’ll muddle through. We always do, after all.”

“Well, _I_ want to hear any tips you get from Professor Sprout, Neville,” Hermione said. “Can I come down to the greenhouses tomorrow?”

Neville gave a broad smile. “That’d be super. I’ve got some Chinese Chomping Cabbages to show you.”

Hermione turned her attention to her meal. Ron and Harry probably _would_ manage to muddle through. They’d have their star power to quell any tendency towards disrespect by the older students — and not just because Harry was The Boy Who Lived. Since they’d finished their training and become fully-fledged Aurors, they’d had any number of front pages in _The Quibbler_ and _The Prophet_ for successful raids, dramatic arrests, and heroic deeds.

 _While I brewed and researched quietly in my lab._ Although the thought of the attention Harry and Ron got made Hermione shudder, she had to admit it would be useful to her now.

Ron nudged her, and Hermione realised the meal was over. “Let’s go to the staff-room,” he suggested.

“Why?”

“Because we can! We’re staff, now. Haven’t you ever wondered what they get up to in there?”

“Oh, all sorts of decadence and debauchery, I assure you,” Flitwick said merrily. “Why, sometimes we even play _checkers_.”

Ron deflated a bit. “Oh.”

Hermione leaned closer to him and whispered, “I think we — all the old D.A — should go and have a look at the Room of Requirement.”

“But we’ve seen that!” Ron protested.

Hermione kicked him in the ankle. “I really think it’s a good idea.”

“Ow!” He rubbed his ankle. “Alright, then. Why?”

Hermione glanced down the table at Minerva McGonagall, who had managed to re-assemble all the leaders of Dumbledore’s Army at Hogwarts, who had a man hiding in the dungeons who the whole world thought was dead, and who had all but told Hermione that there was something secretly wrong with Professor Snape. “Tell you later.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea that the jinx on the D.A.D.A position continued after Voldemort’s death is another divergence from canon.


	9. Chapter 9: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore's Army rides again - sort of.

 

 

Concentrating hard on the idea that they needed somewhere comfortable to talk where they absolutely wouldn’t be overheard, Hermione walked between the tapestry of the troll clubbing Barnaby the Barmy and the blank wall once, twice …

The third time, the door appeared. “Come on,” she said, and pulled it open.

There was a corridor behind it, strung with floor-to-ceiling wind-chimes. They chimed sweetly but quite loudly as Hermione pushed her way through them.

“What are these for?” Ron asked, following her.

“Hermione told the Room she didn’t want anyone eavesdropping on us,” Luna said. “These must be in case anybody else in the school asks the room for somewhere to have a private conversation and gets in after us.”

Ron got slightly tangled in a wind-chime. “Couldn’t it just take them somewhere else?”

“I don’t think that’s how the Room works, Ron,” Luna said.

“Remember, it took us to the same Room of Hidden Things as Draco,” Hermione reminded him. She came to the end of the wind-chimes and stepped out into a small, cosy sitting room. There was a fireplace with a small fire, four comfortable armchairs, and a little table piled high with cakes of every possible description.

“Brilliant,” Ron said, and helped himself.

Neville was the last to make his way through the chimes, and Hermione waited until everyone had taken a seat. “Right. Now. I think there’s something going on.”

“I think you’re right,” Luna said. “There’s a new ghost, for one thing, and all the Nargles have fled the castle.”

Hermione ignored the Nargles for the moment. “What ghost?”

“I don’t know. No-one’s seen it, even the other ghosts. But things have been moving around in the Potions classroom, at night.”

“Well, that’s just students, isn’t it?” Ron said.  He grinned at Hermione “Brewing Polyjuice potion, or something.”

“In the summer?” Neville asked. “Is that why Professor Slughorn left? The ghost?”

“I don’t think so,” Luna said. “Hagrid said that he didn’t really _want_ to go, and that Professor McGonagall had called in a few favours to get him a teaching position at Durmstrang.” 

“She told me he was retiring,” Hermione said.

Luna shook her head. “He’s definitely not retiring. That’s interesting, don’t you think? That Minerva lied to you?”

“It is,” Hermione said a little grimly. “When did all your job offers come?”

“Two weeks ago,” Neville and Ron said in unison.

“Mine too.”

“And me,” Luna said.

“And it was two weeks ago that Ginny got an owl from Madam Hooch asking her to come and do some extra Quidditch coaching once term starts,” Ron said.

“Do you think she wants us to deal with the ghost?” Neville asked.

Having a pretty good idea of who was really moving things around in the Potions classroom in the dead of night, Hermione shook her head. “No. I think … look, there’s something I can’t tell you, not yet. It’s — it’s not my right to. But there’s definitely a reason Minerva has gone to a lot of trouble to get the band back together.” At Ron’s blank look. “It’s a Muggle saying. I mean, it’s Dumbledore’s Army all over again. _We_ were the ringleaders.”

“And Harry. And Ginny,” Ron said. “Who’ll be here tomorrow. So if I guess what your secret is, will you tell me if I’m right?”

Hermione shook her head. “No, but if you find it out on your own you’ll know.”

“I’ll Floo Harry tonight and tell him to make sure he packs the Marauder’s Map,” Ron said.

 _That_ _’ll do it, alright_. Hermione could imagine Harry’s face when he spotted _Severus Snape_ on the map. _I_ _’d better warn him_. _For Harry_ _’s sake, if nothing else._ “We all need to be prepared.”

“I hope it isn’t basilisks again,” Neville said.

“I think if the school or the students were in real danger, Minerva would call in the Aurors or even the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” Hermione said.

“Dumbledore never did,” Ron pointed out.

“Professor Dumbledore knew about the Rotfang Conspiracy,” Luna said. “If he’d called in the Ministry, none of us would have got away with our teeth.”

“Rotfang Conspiracy or not,” Hermione said firmly, “the Ministry was definitely rotten in those days. It isn’t now. Whatever Minerva wants us to do, I think we can rule out large-scale danger to the school.”

“Why doesn’t she just tell us?” Neville said.

“Maybe she will tomorrow, when Harry and Ginny get here,” Ron said. “Maybe she’s waiting to tell everybody together.”

“Maybe,” Hermione said. _How close can I go without breaking my promise?_ “Maybe she _can_ _’t_ tell us, not outright.”

“There are curses that can do that,” Ron said grimly. “Make it impossible for the victim to tell anyone what’s happened to them.” He stared at Hermione, eyes narrowed. “This thing you can’t tell us …”

“It’s not a curse, Ron,” Hermione said quickly. “But I think it _is_ to do with why Minerva wants us all here. I think it’s why she didn’t just ask us directly — I mean, she’d have to know that if she asked for our help we’d come.”

“If it’s not a curse —”

“Please don’t ask me, Ron!” Hermione jumped to her feet and turned to give the fire and unnecessary poke, angry at herself for forgetting he was an experienced Auror now and trained to winkle secrets out of people. “I made someone a promise that I wouldn’t tell anyone something. It’s not something that hurts me, or anyone else, and I made it of my own free will, because the person I made it to had the right to want me to. I know you can probably trick me into telling you enough to work it out, and I don’t want to break my word. Alright?”

There was a short silence. “Alright,” Ron said. “But do you mind if I cast Finite Incantatem on you?”

Relieved, Hermione turned around. “No, of course not.” She smiled at him. “Especially since you’re going to do it anyway, Auror Weasley.”

He returned the smile, but he still took out his wand. “ _Finite Incantatem_! There. Still don’t want to tell us?”

Hermione shook her head, and he shrugged. “Then it’s your business. Alright. We need to wait for Harry and Ginny to start making a proper plan of attack, but here’s what I think we should do tonight. Hermione, you head up to the —”

“Library,” Hermione said, and everyone laughed. “Actually, I think Luna should come with me. There might be something useful in the back-issues of the papers, and she’d be better at looking for it than me.”

Ron nodded. “Neville — you try and track down Nearly Headless Nick. He’s always been the chattiest of the ghosts, and he’ll remember you. Ask him for all the details he and anyone else incorporeal have on this new ghost in the dungeons.”

Neville nodded. “And what are you going to do?”

Ron grinned. “I’m going to break into Professor McGonagall’s office and have a chat to Albus Dumbledore.”

 Hermione looked at her watch. “You’ve got another two hours, then, before the password changes. Today’s is ‘gang aft agley’.”

“Let’s hope it’s not an omen,” Luna said softly.


	10. Chapter 10: Ron Weasley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron seeks advice

Ron found himself creeping along the corridor that led to the Headmistress’s Office and gave himself a mental shake. _You_ _’re a teacher now, idiot. If Filch sees you, just nod and keep walking._

_Still, I must remember to tell Harry to make sure he brings his Invisibility Cloak as well as that map._

No-one else seemed to be about. After a quick shufti at either end of the corridor to make sure the coast was clear, he returned to the gargoyle. “Gang aft agley,” he murmured, and the gargoyle moved aside.

He had his cover story ready in case Minerva McGonagall was still in her office. _Oh, Professor, I_ _’m sorry to bother you this late … Hermione was talking about teaching and I thought I’d ask your advice …_

It wasn’t needed. There was no answer to his knock, and when he opened the door, the office was dark and empty.

“Lumos.” The light from his wand showed that McGonagall had returned the office to much as it had been when it had been Professor Dumbledore’s, except for the bizarre objects. _And Fawkes_.

He was careful not to touch anything, not even brushing against the furniture as he crossed the room to Dumbledore’s portrait. The fact that the door had opened easily to his murmured _Alohomora_ didn’t mean anything. _If I was Headmaster of Hogwarts, I_ _’d have protective spells woven into every inch of my office._

If he set something off, there was still his cover story. _I thought I_ _’d ask your advice and when you weren’t here, I just wanted to talk to Professor Dumbledore a moment._ With his best pleading expression, the one that Ginny always said made him look like he’d been sent to bed without supper.

Ron raised his wand higher. “Professor Dumbledore? Are you awake?”

“Well, I am _now_ ,” the familiar voice said. “Come closer, and let me see who I’m talking to.”

Ron did as instructed, holding the point of his wand where it would light his face. “Professor, I’m —”

“Ronald Weasley!” Dumbledore said. “A very great pleasure to see you again, Ronald. I’m sorry I’m  not able to offer you a lemon sherbet. Minerva does have some very good shortbread in the drawer of her desk.”

“Er, thanks, but I’m alright.” He could imagine Professor McGonagall’s face if she came in to find him breaking into her desk to steal her biscuits, and it wasn’t anything he wanted to see for real. “I had some questions, Professor, and I thought you might be able to help me with them.”

“I will help you as much as I can, Ronald, but it may not be very much. You know the conditions upon all of us here?”

“That you help the school,” Ron said.

“Yes, there’s that. But we’re bound to be loyal to whoever occupies this office, you see. Even if we disagree with him or her.”

“That’s a bit much.” Ron thought of Dolores Umbridge.  “What if they’re bloody awful?”

“We do have the ability to make ourselves scarce,” Dumbledore said. “Most of us have other paintings in other places.”

“Will you _please_ lower your voices?” another voice snarled. Ron turned and Phineas Nigellus Black gave him a sour look. “Oh, it’s you. Come to blindfold me again?”

“Er, sorry about that,” Ron said, not pointing out that it had been Hermione who’d done the blindfolding. “But, you know, we didn’t know about Professor Snape, at the time. Or we wouldn’t have blindfolded you, we would have used to give him messages.”

Phineas Nigellus sniffed. “You did, boy, you just didn’t know it.”

“And very lucky they were, too, to have your cunning to assist them,” Dumbledore said soothingly.

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” Ron added. “But since you’re awake, you might be able to help. And —” He looked across the other portraits, moving his wand from side to side to illuminate them, and frowned. “And Professor Snape. Where is he?”

“Severus Snape doesn’t have a portrait in this room,” Dumbledore said. He didn’t sound regretful about it, which Ron personally thought was a bit rich, given what Snape had done because Dumbledore had asked him to.

“I suppose he didn’t have time to get one painted,” Ron said. He felt a bit of a lump in his throat at the thought, as if he was hearing that Snape had died. When the man had _actually_ died, Ron had been too terrified and desperate and frantic to think much about it, except _serves the treacherous git right_. When he’d learnt how wrong he’d been, he’d been sorry for that thought, but somehow he’d never managed to feel sad over it. There’d been too much raw agony in the Weasley household back then for any of them to have much room to grieve for a man they’d barely known and deeply disliked, even if they did now know how wrong they’d been to do so.

Now, wondering where Snape’s portrait would have hung if only he hadn’t been too busy protecting the students and spying on Voldemort and bloody saving the wizarding world to have one painted, he felt the way he thought he would have if he’d read in the paper that Professor Sprout or Professor Flitwick had passed away. A bit sad, a bit nostalgic, as if the thing to do was to get together with other people who knew them and have a few drinks.

“That must be it,” Dumbledore said. “But why were you wanting to talk to Severus? It was my impression you and he didn’t exactly get on.”

“We didn’t,” Ron said. “And probably we wouldn’t, even if I do know he was on our side. But I think there’s something wrong in Hogwarts, and Professor Snape would be one of the best people to ask about it, if there is.”

“Something wrong in Hogwarts?” Phineas Nigellus asked querulously. “I think I’d know about it if there was something wrong, boy.”

Dumbledore’s tone was warmer, but he still sounded puzzled. “What makes you think that, Ronald?”

“Professor McGonagall’s got us all back,” Ron said simply. “Even had to get old Slughorn out to do it, but she’s got me and Harry, Ginny and Hermione, Neville and Luna, all back working here this year, all as of two weeks ago. Hermione thinks it’s for a reason.”

The old Slytherin Headmaster’s expression darkened at the mention of Hermione, but he held his tongue.

“Miss Granger has always excelled at logic,” Dumbledore said. “But why not simply ask Minerva?”

“I intend to, if she doesn’t bring it up tomorrow. But Hermione says that she doesn’t think Professor McGonagall _can_ tell us, for some reason. Is she under some sort of spell or curse?” Ron raised his wand a little higher. “If she is, you have to tell me, you know. To protect the school _and_ to be loyal to her.”

Phineas Nigellus made a rude noise. “Tell _you_? Do you think that if something like that happened, we’re entirely without resources? Albus hangs in the Minister’s office as well, you know!”

“That’s a good point,” Ron said placatingly, and the portrait subsided a bit.

“My, Ronald, you _have_ grown up,” Dumbledore twinkled. “Now, in answer to your quite sensible question, no, to my knowledge, Minerva McGonagall isn’t under any curse, spell, or other magical compulsion. Of course, it might be _not_ to my knowledge, but I think I would have noticed.”

“Right. Good.” _The same as Hermione_. And while Ron had accepted Hermione’s wish that he not try and trick an answer from her, he didn’t have any such qualms when it came to a couple of paintings. “Can you tell me what it is that Professor McGonagall knows, and Hermione Granger knows, and they can’t tell anyone?”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” Dumbledore said, and Ron noticed that he didn’t say _I don_ _’t know_.

“Alright. It’s a secret that isn’t … well, it isn’t Hermione’s, she said. It might be the Headmistress’s, though.” Ron thought it through. “Hermione said that she made a promise to someone, of her own free will, because it wouldn’t cause any harm to anyone to make it, and the person she made it to had the right to ask. Was that person the Headmistress?”

“No,” Dumbledore said.

“Albus …” Headmaster Black said.

“My dear Phineas, use your head. What exactly did Minerva ask us to do?”

The other portrait’s eyes narrowed. “I see. You  might very well be right, Albus, but I warn you, I’ll have no part of it, and I’ll tell Minerva all about it in the morning.”

Ron felt a bit lost, and he wished he’d thought to bring Hermione with him instead of sending her to the Library. _You_ _’re an Auror_ , he reminded himself. _And a bloody chess champion._ “So,” he said, “Hermione wants to tell us, but can’t, because she’s made a promise. And Professor McGonagall wants us to know, but can’t tell us, which is why she’s brought us all here in a way that immediately looks suspicious.” He kept the fact that it hadn’t looked suspicious until Hermione had pointed it out to himself. “And you want to tell me, but can’t, because the Headmistress asked you not to.” _My dear Phineas, use your head_ … “She asked you not to tell me, or maybe anybody, but she didn’t ask you to keep people from finding out, did she?”

“Very good, Ronald.” Dumbledore beamed. “I really think you deserve some of Minerva’s shortbread.”

“No, thanks, I’m good. And this promise is about a person, right? The person Hermione made _her_ promise to. And it has to be one of the other teachers, because there’s no-one else at the school right now. One of the other teachers is in some sort of trouble, aren’t they?” He waited, but Dumbledore said nothing. “Right. You can’t answer that, because that would break your promise, which means I’m right. One of the other teachers is in trouble, and for some reason they don’t want anyone to know about it, but Professor McGonagall wants to help them, but she can’t because she can’t tell anyone either.” He ran out of breath. “Is that about the size of it?”

“I can’t say, my dear boy,” Dumbledore said, but he was grinning broadly as he said it. “I absolutely cannot say.”

“If you’d shown some of those brains during your schooling, you might have driven fewer of your teachers to distraction,” Phineas Nigellus Black said sourly.

Ron smiled at him, glad for the second confirmation. “I bet you’re right,” he said. “But I’m a teacher now, so I’m sure karma will make sure I have a few students like myself in my classes.”

The two former Headmasters were still laughing as Ron let himself out of the office and went back down the stairs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: Thanks to all my readers! Do consider leaving a comment if you’re enjoying the story. Feedback is the only payment fanfic writers get!


	11. Chapter 11: Ron Weasley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron phones a friend.

 

Ron’s first thought was to bolt to the Library and tell Hermione and Luna what he’d worked out, but sense intervened before he’d gone more than a few steps. The Library was no place for a confidential conversation, even if Madam Pince would let them get away with it.

He hurried back to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom instead, bolted across the room and into his own quarters. _Right, eavesdropping protections_. He took out his wand. “Muffliato!” And then, for good measure, “Salvio hexia! Protego totalum! Cave inimicum!”

 _There_. It wasn’t as good as the protective wards he’d put on the place if it was somewhere that belonged to him, but he wasn’t about to start messing with the castle’s own protections, even if he didn’t trust them to keep out someone Hogwarts felt had a right to be there. _Still, I don_ _’t think even Dumbledore could get through that lot without giving me_ some _warning._

He threw a handful of powder onto the fire and lay down in front of  it. “Floo call to Harry Potter, 12 Grimmauld Place.”

It wasn’t long before Harry’s face appeared in the flames. “Couldn’t be without me for one night, eh?”

“That’s right,” Ron said, grinning. “I’m dying of loneliness being apart from you for twenty four hours.”

Harry nodded approvingly. “As you should.”

“Listen, is Ginny there?”

Harry looked wary. “Why?”

“Not because I’m about to come over all protective big-brother, you turnip. I know that you and she … well, I chose to think of it as _pyjama parties_ and for Merlin’s sake, don’t tell me any different. But this concerns both of you. I mean, all of us — did you know Hermione’s here, too?”

“Is she?” Harry grinned happily. “That’s bloody brilliant, that is.”

“And Luna, and Neville. And it’s not so much ‘bloody brilliant’ as ‘bloody alarming’. So get Ginny, will you?”

“I suppose we can tear ourselves away from braiding each other’s hair at our _pyjama party_ if there’s dark magic afoot,” Harry said, and disappeared from view for a minute. When he came back, Ginny was kneeling beside him. She was, Ron was relieved to see, wearing striped pyjamas and not some sort of seductive negligee. “So what’s up?”

Ron gave them both a highly condensed version of the evening’s events. “So it looks like Professor McGonagall has set all this up because she knows we’ll work it out on our own, and she doesn’t feel she can tell us,” he finished.

“Right. I’ll make sure I bring the map and the cloak tomorrow,” Harry said. “Ginny, I know you were planning to stay in London and just come down for coaching —”

“Yes, but I can’t now, can I?” Ginny said. “I can’t do anything while I’m up on a broom coaching Quidditch, so I’ll need a reason to be there the rest of the time.”

“Got any injuries?” Ron asked. Ginny gave him a look: being Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies meant she was _always_ carrying one injury or another. “Why don’t you tell Professor McGonagall that you’ve got something bad enough to need a bit of a rest, and Madam Pomfrey’s care?”

“She’ll know I’m lying,” Ginny protested. “We’ve got a top healer as our team doctor.”

“Yes, but if she’s really trying to get us all here under false pretences, she won’t argue,” Ron pointed out. “Now listen, when were you planning to get here tomorrow?”

“First thing, now you’ve told us _this_ ,” Harry said.

“Good. I’ll tell the others at breakfast, and we’ll make a time to debrief. See what Hermione and Luna found in the Library, and if Neville got anything from Sir Nick.”

“We need to make a list of which teachers it might be, too,” Ginny said. “I mean, by order of likelihood. Then we’ll know who to keep an eye on … for _signs_ , I mean.”

“Signs of what?” Ron asked. “We don’t know what the trouble they’re in _is_. It could be anything from a curse to being blackmailed by Rita Skeeter.”

“Signs of _anything_ ,” Ginny said. “I mean, we know them, don’t we? At least, we know what they’re like. They taught us for six years — seven, for Hermione and Neville and Luna. _Anything_ odd is important, and what sort of odd it is might give us a hint of what we’re dealing with.”

“I hope it _is_ Rita Skeeter,” Ron said. “Or something we can just go and arrest. I have the feeling that the curse is going to take a fair bit of work, Harry.”

“I bet we crack it in an afternoon,” Harry said blithely. “If Professor Dumbledore was right, and it’s Tom Riddle’s curse, I’ll just walk around the castle until my scar hurts.” He put his hand to his forehead. “Cold … cold … warmer … warmer … hot …”

Ginny nudged him. “Don’t joke.”

“I’m serious,” Harry said, grinning. “Partly. I do think I’ll be able to _feel_ Tom Riddle’s curse. Maybe not through the scar, but he did have a certain inimitable style.”

“Style?” Ginny stared at him. “You know very well his _style_ was just a —”

“Ginny, Ginny, it’s alright.” Harry put his arm around her. “That’s not how I mean it.”

“Everyone has a certain _feel_ to their magic,” Ron explained. “Learning how to feel for it is something we do in Auror training. Like, _your_ magic has a particular style to it. I wouldn’t have been able to in school, but now, I could run across a charm or a hex you cast and say, _oh, that_ _’s Ginny’s_.”

Ginny relaxed a little, leaning against Harry. “I see.”

Harry squeezed her shoulder. “I know what you thought. I know what he was like, in that diary. He fooled a lot of people, but Ginny, I promise you, I don’t have the slightest inclination to admire anything about Tom Riddle’s magic. Just recognise it.” He looked back at Ron. “And you’re sure Hermione’s alright?”

Ron nodded. “She’s not under any magical influence, she’s just made a promise. And you know, I trust her judgement when she says it won’t harm anyone.”

“So do I.” Harry sighed. “Still, it would be easier if she was as energetic as Professor Dumbledore when it came to looking for loopholes.”

“I think Hermione thinks about the ethics of things a lot harder than Professor Dumbledore,” Ron said.

Harry grinned. “I know she does. You know, he said once that he wondered if Hogwarts Sorted students too soon. At the time, I thought he was saying Snape should have been in Gryffindor, because of his bravery.” Ron snorted. “But sometimes I wonder what Albus Dumbledore, student, would have made of himself in Slytherin.”

“They should have major and minor houses,” Ginny said unexpectedly. “You know, like Muggle universities, where you have a main subject and another subject? The Hat asked me if I wanted to be a Hufflepuff.”

“You? A Hufflepuff?” Ron scoffed.

“Hard work, loyalty, and fairness,” Harry said. “I can see it.”

“I _wanted_ Gryffindor, though. But what if, I don’t know.” Ginny paused, thinking, and the two men waited. “What if we had, say, Potions, Divination, Defence Against the Dark Arts and Herbology with the House we ended up in, and Flying, Charms, History of Magic and Transfiguration with the House we were _almost_ in? Wouldn’t we know more people, and be more friendly?”

“We were plenty friendly,” Harry objected.

“Name me one friend you had outside Gryffindor!”

“Luna Lovegood,” Harry said promptly.

“Name me _two_ friends —”

“Cho Chang.”

“A _male_ friend you had outside Gryffindor!” Ginny snapped.

“Got me there,” Harry admitted. “I don’t think I would have been Draco’s friend, though, even if I had been ‘minor Slytherin’.”

“Yeah, but Draco, right,” Ron said slowly. “What if he’d been ‘minor Ravenclaw’ or something?”

“He wouldn’t have been evil?” Harry asked, eyebrows up.

Ron shrugged. “I dunno. That’s the point, though, isn’t it? Ginny’s point?”

He watched Harry think it through. That was one good thing about his best friend having ‘pyjama parties’ with his little sister: Harry gave serious consideration to ideas that came from Ginny, even if they were ones he’d dismiss immediately from Ron or Hermione.

“I suppose,” Harry said at last. “I mean, look at Professor Snape. I bet the Hat offered him Gryffindor. He was the bravest man I ever knew, after all. But, after my dad … well, I can understand why he opted for Slytherin. But if things had been different … in those first years …”

“Yes, but,” Ginny said, “that’s sort of an argument for the way things are, isn’t it?”

Both men stared at her. “Why?” Ron managed.

“Because if Snape and Harry’s dad hadn’t hated each other, Snape wouldn’t have joined the Death Eaters,” Ginny said impatiently. “And he wouldn’t have told Voldemort about the prophecy, and Voldemort wouldn’t have tried to kill you, and wouldn’t have accidentally made you a Horcrux and been sent into exile. He would have just taken over back then.”

“That’s a bit fatalistic, isn’t it?” Ron objected. “I mean, maybe Snape would have joined the Order of the Phoenix and he and Dumbledore and Harry’s parents would have ambushed Mouldyshorts and won, right?”

“But that’s not what happened,” Ginny said.

“That’s what Hermione calls telly-logical thinking,” Ron said. “The idea that because things people did turned out one way, they always were going to turn out that way.” 

“Well,” Harry said firmly, “When you’re Headmaster of Hogwarts, you can suggest it to the Board of Governors. Meanwhile, we’ve got a mystery to solve and a curse to break.”


	12. Chapter 12: Severus Snape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus Snape doesn't sleep well, these days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of quite angsty chapters ahead.

 

 

 

 _Please, Severus_ _… we’re friends._

 _Aveda Kevadra!_ and a flash of sickly green …

It was a dream, Snape knew it was a dream even as the scene played out. A dream he couldn’t wake himself from, a dream that any moment now would —

 _Please, Severus,_ Charity begged.

_Ah, there it is. Back to the beginning, and through we go again._

It was a _dream_. A dream he had almost nightly for years. Surely at least the _edge_ of the fear and shame and self-loathing of it should have worn off by now? _But no._ Charity Burbage pleaded with him again, and again he turned a blank face of indifference to her. _Aveda Kevadra!_

Over and over. _Please, Severus_ _… we’re friends._ Charity died again, and again, and _again_ without even a comforting word, a kind smile, writhing in agony at the mercy of the people she feared most in all the world.

 _Aveda_ —

Snape jerked himself awake at last and flung himself out of bed as his stomach turned over and cold sweat prickled his skin. He made it to the sink before the first painful spasms and leaned there, retching until his stomach was empty. 

 _Please, Severus_ _… we’re friends._

 _Voldemort was watching me_. _She was there as a test for me_. If he’d given away any hint of his real feelings Charity would have been just as dead, he would have soon followed, and all Dumbledore’s plans and plots would have fallen apart in that instant. There had been no choice.

 _Liar_.

 _There were always choices. They were_ all _choices._

Charity had not done a single atom of harm in all her life and a great deal of good. While he, on the other hand, had done a great deal of harm and only one really good thing in his life and in what should have been _his_ last moments he’d had the indescribable comfort of seeing _her_ eyes set in the face of her son, the son who — after everything, _despite_ everything — had tried futilely to save him.

_Who, after everything, had been kind._

And Charity had not woken up in the half-ruined Hospital Wing with Poppy Pomfrey crying over him, sobbing out _dear boy, my poor dear boy_ over and over.

 _Please, Severus_ _…_

He had chosen. He had chosen to stay alive, to maintain his cover, to continue his work. _It was the right choice_. He had known it at the time; he knew it now. Charity Burbage, if she was here, would say the same.

 _If she was here_ _…_ _ah, there_ _’s the rub._

He ran the tap, scooped a palmful of water to rinse his mouth, and straightened. Five years of Poppy and Tilney conspiring to cosset him had had its effect, and the man staring back at him from the mirror looked thin, but not wasted. _You wouldn_ _’t know, from a glance_.

 _Until_ _…_

Deliberately, he raised his left arm, palm towards the mirror. At any time over the past five years, the gesture would have shown him a faded scar, all that was left of the Dark Mark.

Now …

Snape forced himself to look at the grey flesh. His efforts at containment were working: it had still spread no further than the diameter of the Mark. He could feel the curse seething in its confinement, longing to be released to spread its evil through the rest of his flesh, to sink into his blood and bones and run rampant through his body. It was designed to cause an agonising death, and for all his skill and knowledge, all Snape could do was delay the inevitable.

When the time came, though, he’d cheat the curse of his pain, at least. _No need for_ me _to force a friend to strike the killing blow._ There were ingredients in the storeroom at this very moment that could be combined to end his life quickly and painlessly.

 _Not yet._ He had, perhaps, a year before he reached that point, and it was a year he intended to put to good use. By the time he lifted that final vial to his lips, Hermione Granger would be the best teacher of Potions he could make her, and he would know that his subject and his students were left in good hands.

Snape lowered his arm and gave his reflection a bitter smile. _Ironies upon ironies_.

That he had surrendered any hope of surviving, at the end, only to find himself alive despite himself.

That he had abandoned all hope of doing any of the things he had sometimes allowed himself to dream of doing if he was ever free of his two terrible masters, to keep himself safe from Death Eater revenge, and that revenge had found him anyway.

That it had been the insufferable know-it-all Granger who had turned herself into once of the most competent Potions researchers in the country, and the logical choice for the Potions Professor of Hogwarts in the years and decades ahead. 

 _Who would have thought, five years ago, that I would find myself here: once more teaching Granger, once more in the classroom_ _…_

_Once more dying._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words in Snape’s nightmare are taken from the film version.


	13. Chapter 13: Severus Snape, 1998

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1998: Severus Snape after the Battle of Hogwarts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the last chapter was so short, here's another ahead of schedule.

 

* * *

 

_1998_

* * *

 

 

Severus Snape opened his eyes and stared at the familiar ceiling of the Hospital Wing. He knew he ought to be surprised to be alive, and somewhere in the distance he thought he could faintly sense the emotion, but it was somewhere on the other side of an immense weariness, a desperate sadness, and a deep despair.

And failure. A river, a lake, an _ocean_ of failure.

 _If I_ _’m alive, then I have failed._

Every single person opposed to Voldemort had truly believed him a traitor to their cause, not a triple but a _quadruple_ agent, by the time the Dark Lord came to Hogwarts. If Snape was alive, and in the Hospital Wing, and not in restraints, then the winning side had been that of the Death Eaters.

_Failed utterly. Failed absolutely. Failed irredeemably._

The Dark Lord had probably not given Severus Snape a second thought, but no doubt some Death Eater had come across him and thought to seek Voldemort’s favour by saving the life of his closest, his most favoured servant. There was an exquisite irony to knowing that his perfect impersonation of devoted service had saved his worthless life, and had done so at precisely the moment when the true end he was striving for was completely lost.

For Harry Potter must be dead. He’d be dead, whatever the ultimate outcome, that had been Dumbledore’s plan all along, _pig for the slaughter,_ but knowing he was dead and defeated … Snape closed his eyes.

 _Grief. I should feel grief, for Lily Potter_ _’s son. For all those on his side, who surely fell today — my students, my colleagues, my comrades-at-arms …_ If things had been reversed, they wouldn’t have grieved the death of Severus Snape. _They would have rejoiced_.

But there was no grief, no howling empty agony such as had almost robbed his reason after Lily’s death, only a deep ache as if something cold and lethal was lodged behind his diaphragm. _I murdered grief, when I murdered Dumbledore on his own command, when I murdered the best part of myself and agreed to send Lily_ _’s boy to die._

Had he told himself that he would somehow find a way to save the boy at the last? Had he been so self-deluded and self-deluding? _I should have nodded and smiled and taken the first opportunity to kidnap the boy and take him far away. America. Australia. Tibet._

 _But no._ To defeat Voldemort, he had agreed to sacrifice the boy and in so doing had turned his back on the single good thing he had ever managed to achieve in his miserable, useless life: protect the son Lily had given her life to save.

 _And what now?_ The Dark Lord must have mastered the Elder Wand, to defeat Potter, so he would likely let Snape live. _At least as long as I prove useful_. Live in a world run by Voldemort’s rules, where those he’d be forced to watch die because he could not save them would grow to numbers Snape couldn’t bear to contemplate.

 _I will kill the Dark Lord myself_. How, he had no idea, or he would have accomplished the deed long ago, but he knew it absolutely. _I will find a way, if it takes the rest of my life, and then I will watch him die screaming and begging for mercy._

_Just like Charity did._

A horrifyingly familiar voice broke into his thoughts. “Oh, Severus, dear boy, my poor dear boy.” Poppy Pomfrey was hurrying toward him, hands outstretched, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Oh, my poor boy, my poor dear boy.”  

“Poppy!” His voice was little more than a rasp and speaking made his throat hurt as if each word he forced out was a razor-blade. He raised himself on his elbow and tried to shake off her efforts to make him lie down again. “Poppy, you have to get out of here.”

She tried to push him back to the pillow. “Lie down, and don’t speak yet, you need rest, dear boy, lie down —”

“Poppy!” Snape grabbed her wrist. He put as much of his old command as he could into his ruined thread of a voice and fixed his gaze on hers. “This is very important. You must leave. I am going to teach you a charm. Not a healing charm, and I know you have trouble with anything meant to harm, but I will teach it to you, and you will learn it. And then you will go out and as quietly and carefully as you can, you will leave Hogwarts and if anyone tried to stop you, you will use this charm. Do you understand?”

“Severus, he’s gone.”

“I know he’s gone,” Snape gritted out. _Has her mind gone under the weight of the the last few days?_ “The charm is _Stupefy._ And don’t worry, you won’t won’t hurt anyone for more than a few minutes. Have you got your wand?”

She blinked at him.  “Yes, I always —”

“Good. Take it out.” When she’d drawn it from her sleeve he grasped her hand. “This gesture, do you see?  Like this. And _Stupefy_!”

“I know how to cast it, Severus,” she said soothingly. “Given the sort of things students here get into from time to time, sometimes one needs fairly strong measures to settle them down for a moment or two.”

“Good. Good.” He fought to keep his tone calm and measured. “Now, Poppy, you must go now. Not through Hogsmeade, they’ll be watching. Through the Forest. Is there somewhere you could go? Far away. Somewhere far away.”

She shook her head. “I’m not going far away, dear boy, when there are so many people here who need me.”

“Poppy!” Merlin, raising his voice _hurt_ and worse, it made Poppy flinch. “I’m sorry. But you must listen to me. You must go, and you must go _now_.” She didn’t look convinced and he twisted the wand from her fingers. He’d compel her if he had to.  _What_ _’s one more Unforgivable and this one, after all, in an unambiguously good cause._ He raised the wand a little. “ _Imper—_ ”

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” said an unmistakably Scottish accent.

As the wand twisted out of his fingers and flew across the room Severus wondered how Minerva McGonagall had managed not to accidentally conjure up a herd of elephants or an avalanche of gorse-flowers at least once in all the years he’d know her, given her pronunciation of spells was, to put it mildly, unique. It wasn’t the first time the question had occurred to him or even the one-hundred-and-first, the thought unspooling automatically as the rest of his mind went blank with shock and the room was suddenly somehow both very bright and sharp and a very long way away.

Over a great distance, he watched as Minerva caught the flying wand with her free hand and kept her own wand pointed at him as she advanced. “Severus Snape, what by Nimue’s knickers were you thinking of doing?”

Poppy captured Snape’s now-empty hand in hers. “I think he was going to try to force me to escape the school grounds,” she said.

“I see.” Minerva lowered her wand. “Severus —”

Minerva McGonagall striding about, unharmed and fully armed, in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing with the afternoon sun fading from the windows showing it was at least eighteen hours since he’d fallen bleeding to the floor.

There was only one possible explanation for that particular set of circumstances.

Snape was so certain that it didn’t even occur to him to be concerned about the Taboo, not even _just in case_. “Voldemort is dead.”

Both women spoke at once. “Yes.”

He let go of Poppy’s wrist and sank back against the pillows, closing his eyes. “We won.”

“Yes.” And there was something wrong in her unquestioning acceptance of that _we,_ given Voldemort’s defeat, but the world was spinning around him much too quickly to chase that down.

“And Potter —” _Oh, Lily. I_ _’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. If I’d know Dumbledore’s plans earlier I would have found a way, some way, somehow —_

“I’ll tell him you want to see him,” Minerva said.  

Snape’s eyes snapped open and he surged upwards. “ _What?_ ”

“I’ll tell him you want to —”

“He lives?” Minerva nodded, and he clenched his hands on the bedsheets. _He lives. Lily_ _’s boy lives._ And the fatal, icy lump in his chest was tearing its way out of him and it hurt so much he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t _think_ , except that _he lives, Lily_ _’s boy lives, he lives …_

 _I didn_ _’t fail her, for all I did my best to try._

_He lives._

“Oh, Severus.” Minerva sat down on the edge of the bed and took the hand that Poppy wasn’t holding. The grip of her warm, papery fingers somehow made it possible for Snape to take a breath, and then another, and another. “Yes, he’s alive. We lost many, too many, but not Harry Potter. He Who — _Voldemort_ used the killing curse, but all it did was kill the Horcrux part of him that he’d hidden in Harry. Then Harry told everyone exactly what you’d done, and why, and ninety-percent of the Death Eaters buggered right off immediately, and then he fought You-Know — _Voldemort_ , and exploded him into approximately eighty-seven distinct pieces.”

Snape felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth as he let the two women coax him into lying down again. “Approximately?”

“I was a little busy to be precise in my count.” Minerva gave an indignant sniff.

A strange sound forced its way out of him. For a moment, Snape thought it might be laughter, but then he felt the warmth of a tear slide down his cheek and realised it was a sob.

“Oh, Severus.” Minerva gave another sniff, this one not indignant. “I’m so sorry, I’m so very sorry. I should have known. That night — all you did was defend yourself. I should have known then you were still on our side. Before then, when all you did to Mr Longbottom and Miss Weasley and Miss Lovegood was to give them a night out with Hagrid — I should have know.”

Snape pulled his hands free and ran them over his face, relieved that the tear did not seem to be in danger of being followed by others. “I’m glad you didn’t. The Dark Lord might have grown suspicious if there had been any wavering in your implacable hatred.”

“None of us _hated_ you.” Minerva had always been a terrible liar. For years, every time that thought had crossed his mind it had brought with it gnawing anxiety, impatience with her, and a general burning anger at the whole impossible situation.

Now he felt only fond amusement. _So this is what peace feels like._ “Minerva, you _all_ hated me.  You despised me. You loathed me. And thank Merlin for it: you did half my work for me.” 

“I’ll never forgive myself —”

“Minerva.” The old intonations still answered. “Kindly compose yourself.”

“Yes, of course.” She gave one final sniff. “There’s no use crying over spilt milk, as they say.”

“Why would anyone cry over spilt milk?” Poppy Pomfrey sounded genuinely puzzled. “All it takes is a simple — oh, Muggles.”

“I’ll go and get Harry for you, Severus,” Minerva said.

“No!” he said quickly.

She frowned. “But I thought —”

“Not — not _yet_.” Not ever, if he could help it, thinking of those memories he’d let spill from him in a dying effort to do Dumbledore’s dirty work for him one last time. He wasn’t even sure what they had been, apart from that one crucial conversation to tell Potter that Dumbledore needed him to die. Nagini’s venom was cruel, and it had been an even bet whether the poison or the blood-loss would finish him first, and Potter had been there — his father’s loathsome face, his mother’s lovely eyes — and not that Snape cared what a teenager thought of him, but Dumbledore had been the last person to trust him and the only one to ever know _why_ —

 _I could have given him anything._ What had Minerva said?  _Then Harry told everyone exactly what you_ _’d done, and why._

 _That_ _’s a certain indication that there was more than just that one important memory there._ Dying, his personal dignity had been just one more sacrifice on the altar of his service.

 _Except I didn_ _’t die._ “Not yet,” he said again. “Minerva. Who found me?”

“I did,” Poppy said. “In the — well, Severus, all three of them — Miss Granger, Mr Weasley, Mr Potter — they said Voldemort had killed you. There’s been … we’ve had to …”

“A burial party was sent to bring me to the morgue,” Snape summed up.

“Yes,” Minerva said. “Terribly unfortunate, but there you are. Poppy didn’t realise you weren’t quite as dead as we’d thought until a few hours ago.”

Snape felt for the wounds to his throat and found nothing, not even a bandage. “Nagini tore out half my neck.”

“When I undressed you, I found this in your robe.” Poppy held out a single phoenix feather. “There’s still some damage, internally. It will take a few days for the potions to work.”

Snape took the feather and turned it slowly between his fingers. “No-one’s seen Fawkes since we buried Albus.”

“It looks like that’s not quite true, though, doesn’t it?” Minerva said.

“How many?” He turned the feather over again. “How many others, in the morgue?”

“Nearly sixty,” Poppy said, and then gave a gulping sob and put her hands over her face.

 _Sixty_. And of all of them, Dumbledore’s pet had seen fit to save only Severus Snape.

He laid the feather down. “So everyone believes me dead.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to wake up to a circle of expectant faces,” Minerva said tartly.

His lips twitched, and he realised they were trying to smile. It had become an unfamiliar feeling, recently. “You thought correctly.” Pulling up his left sleeve, he examined his forearm. There was a scar, now, where so recently the Dark Mark had been seared bone-deep. “And the Death Eaters?”

“They’ll be rounded up,” Minerva said.

“By your use of the future perfect, I gather that at least some are _currently_ still at large?” When she nodded, he closed his eyes. “And Potter made my work known to the world. Minerva, please, for now — let me be dead, as far as anyone knows.”

“But — you’re a hero, Severus!”

 _Gryffindors._ “I am still a traitor, Minerva. Not, perhaps, exactly the traitor I was formerly believed to be, but a traitor. If it’s known I live … well, let’s just say that Fawkes will have wasted his efforts.”

She was silent a moment, and he could see the good sense of his words sinking in. Finally she nodded. “Severus, whatever you want. Whatever you ask of me. I owe you that. That and more.”

“For my service,” he said, hearing the bitterness in his own voice.

She took his hand again. “No, my dear. For your friendship, which I hope I still have.”

 Snape blamed the damage to his throat for the fact that he was unable to speak, and closed his fingers over hers.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final battle recounted here is an amalgam of both book and movie.


	14. Chapter 14: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in the present, Hermione tries to negotiate the ethics of her dilemma - and finish her homework.

* * *

 

_2003_

 

* * *

 

Hermione bolted down the corridor toward the Great Hall, completely forgetting to be nervous or to find her teaching robes unfamiliar. _Late, and only to my second meal_ _… and they all have to wait until I get there …_

She’d stayed late in the Library, long after Luna had announced that she had scanned two years back-issue of _The Daily Prophet_ and was going to bed in order to be awake before dawn to search for Fibblideens. Carefully not asking what Fibblideens were, Hermione had wished her good night, closed her own books, and reached for the second stack she’d collected.

 _Two feet on the Unbreakable Vow_ , Professor Snape had set her. Almost certainly, he’d been merely baiting her, and wouldn’t expect her to actually _do_ the essay. _And he can_ _’t exactly give me detention if I don’t._

But he’d been right. Hermione _would_ have made a dangerously imprecise and broad vow, without thinking it through. _And Minerva pulled me up_ twice _when we were talking._

Words were as much a part of magic as intentions, and she’d allowed herself to grow sloppy with them over the past few years. Potions didn’t care what you said to them, and she’d spent more of her free time with her parents than with other witches and wizards — certainly a great deal more time than she’d spent with witches and wizards older than she and Harry and Ron were, who might have chided her back into the habit of being precise.

 _The Unbreakable Vow is made by one party to another, and requires a third party present to complete the spell,_ she’d started her essay. _Traditionally, it consists of three promises._

_The first recorded instance of an Unbreakable Vow was the Vow made by Ignius Maddigan to Hannah Gamboni, witnessed and sealed by Jericho Summerset, in 1214, although the lack of detail included in descriptions of the event is an indication that the Unbreakable Vow was well known at the time, and readers were expected to be familiar with it._

Her quill had scratched across the parchment, filling one inch, two, twelve … She’d finished a foot-and-a-half by the time she’d set out the history to her satisfaction, and begun a new paragraph with _There are several accounts of Unbreakable Vows that did not work as at least some of the parties intended._

 _In 1529, the wizard Millnius Fillius Robertson sought to bind the witch Hazel Pattermore to serve and protect him by means of forcing her to make an Unbreakable Vow by threatening the life of her daughter._ Hermione had chewed the end of her quill. Was it relevant to mention that the daughter had been a Squib, and completely unable to defend herself? _Robertson abducted Pattermore_ _’s daughter, a Squib, and confined her in his manor house. He required Pattermore to Vow that:_

_1) She would not attempt to free her daughter_

_2) She would use her powers as Robertson directed her to, without hesitation or mental reservation._

_3) She would be loyal to Robertson until_ _‘her last breath’._

_Pattermore made the Vow, and then, not having sworn to keep her circumstances or that of her daughter secret, took the first opportunity to send her Patronus to her husband with a full account of what had transpired. Then, taking advantage of her severe allergy to roses, she chewed a mouthful of rose petals. The resulting swelling closed her windpipe, which fulfilled the conditions of having taken_ _‘her last breath’. Released from her loyalty, Pattermore promptly cast a voiceless curse on Robertson. The nature of this curse is unknown, however, when Pattermore’s husband, family, and allies arrived shortly afterwards, they found both Pattermore and Robertson dead._

Which served Robertson right in Hermione’s opinion, and not just because he’d failed to think through the wording of the Vow. 

Finding three more examples had taken longer than she’d planned, and it had been the small hours of the morning by the time she’d crawled into bed. As a result, she’d overslept, and was now —

Dashing through the doors into the Great Hall, she saw with great relief that the others hadn’t had to wait for her. _Breakfast must have different rules._ Ron was already working his way through a mound of scrambled eggs and bacon that rivalled the one in front of Hagrid. Luna was nibbling a stalk of asparagus and talking to Professor Vector. From the slightly alarmed look on the latter’s face, Hermione guessed Luna was expounding on the habits of Fibblideens.

And down the other end of the table, talking animatedly with Minerva McGonagall —

“Harry! Ginny!”

Harry and Ginny stood up as Hermione reached them, and she hugged them both fiercely. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to get caught up with both of them,” Minerva said as they took their seats. “Miss Weasley will be spending more time here than originally planned, to consult Madam Pomfrey.”

Hermione turned to Ginny, frowning. “You’re not ill, are you?”

Ginny shook her head. “No, but I wrenched my shoulder in a practice last month and it’s been slow to come right. The coach agreed that it was better to take some time off now to get it completely better than to risk it going really wrong further into the season.” She winked at Hermione.

“And I can’t wait to get cracking on that curse,” Harry said cheerfully. “I suppose you’ve tried all the usual things? Checking the employment contract, the classroom, the quarters?”

“Yes, Mr Potter, you can be sure we’ve tried all the ‘usual things’.” The Headmistress’s voice was tart. “And a few unusual things, as well.”

Harry just smiled at her, unruffled. “I’ll need you to talk me through them, then, before I start. This afternoon?”

“Three o’clock,” Minerva said, and Harry nodded.

He turned back to the other three. “So where have they got you kipping, Hermione? Down in the dungeons like Professor Snape?”

She shook her head. “No.” _Because for one thing, those quarters are currently inhabited by the previous holder of my position._ “Ravenclaw Tower. Third floor, the room with the painting of a dove and, usually, a couple of mermaids on the door.”

“I’m over in Gryffindor,” Ginny said. “Two paintings left from the Fat Lady, actually.”

“And Ron and I will bunk in the D.A.D.A professor’s quarters,” Harry said. “With two of us, it’ll be harder for the curse to take us by surprise.” He didn’t look at all as if the prospect alarmed him.

“I was just saying to Harry and Ginny last night how it would be great for us _all to get together_ and have _good old chat_ ,” Ron said with meaning.

Hermione nodded. _So Harry knows. At least, Harry knows as much as Ron knows_.

 _If not as much as_ I _know._

_Although if he brought the Marauder_ _’s Map, one glance in the right direction will fill him right in._

“I’d like to catch up with Hagrid,” she said. “I’ve got something I have to do after breakfast, and then we could all walk down to see him?” The open hillside would make it impossible for anyone to sneak up on them, and _Muffliato_ would make sure no-one could use a spell to eavesdrop from far away.

“Sounds like a plan,” Harry said. “Do you know what he’s keeping as a pet this year?”

“So long as it isn’t another giant spider,” Ron said with a shudder.

“It’s bound to be a giant _something_ ,” Harry pointed out. “Five knuts it either spits venom or breathes fire.”

“I’ll take that,” Ginny said. “I’m betting it has either too many heads or too many legs.”

 “Whatever it is, I’m betting it’s bound to be deeply unpleasant,” Hermione said.

“No fair, Hermione, you can’t bet on a sure thing!” Ginny said, and they all laughed. “So what do you have to do after breakfast?”

Hermione thought quickly. “I need to look over the ingredients in the storeroom straight away and make sure none of them have expired. If I leave it until tomorrow it might be too late to replace anything that needs it before my first lessons.”

“Have you thought about how you’ll start?” Harry asked. “I mean, you could always use Professor Snape’s speech for the first years. I bet _he_ used it every year.”

“I could,” Hermione said, pouring herself some tea. “But I don’t think I want to emulate Professor Snape in the classroom. I’m going to ask Neville for a bit of advice. Professor Sprout is actually training him in teaching.”

“I might do the same,” Harry said. “I mean, I thought I’d just use what worked in our old D.A. days for fourth years and above, but I’ve been a bit worried about the first years. How do you sort of _ease_ an eleven-year-old into contemplating the Unforgivables? They’re not even really old enough for Boggarts.”

“Shield spells,” Ginny suggested. “I mean, they can’t hurt each other with them even if they try, and it’s the sort of thing that’s always useful eventually, even with the most uneventful life.”

Hermione gulped the last of her tea and picked up a piece of toast. “I’d better get going if I’m going to get through the storeroom by … say ten? Meet you at the doors?”

The others agreed, and she left them to a further round of betting on the exact nature of whatever hideously dangerous pet Hagrid would have adopted _this_ year.

Professor Snape was not in the office — in _my_ office, Hermione reminded herself — and nor was he in the classroom, or the storeroom. Since he was unlikely to be wandering around the school where he might be seen, that meant he must be in his rooms.

For a few moments, she considered going and knocking on his door. _But if he_ _’d wanted me to do that, he would have said so_.

_He_ _’ll find me when he wants to._

But still … _he doesn_ _’t know Harry has the Marauder’s Map._ She could guess what Harry would do the second he saw Snape’s name in the Professor’s private rooms. _Charge right down there and hammer on the door._   _That will end well._

_I_ _’ll give Professor Snape half-an-hour to show himself, and then I’ll go and knock._

In fact, she’d only been checking the stores of potion ingredients for fifteen minutes when she heard, behind her, “Professor Granger.”

Hermione carefully re-corked the vial of infusion of cowbane and put it back on the shelf before she turned. “Professor Snape. Do you worry about anyone seeing you in the corridors?”

He had eschewed his head-to-toe black today, or more likely simply left off the tightly buttoned coat, wearing his teaching robes over a white shirt and black trousers. “No.”

After a moment, Hermione realised that further explanation wasn’t going to be forthcoming. _I suppose he uses an invisibility spell if someone is coming, and he thinks it_ _’s too obvious for me to need to ask._  “Before we get to the lesson plans, there’s something you need to know,” she said into the uncomfortable silence. “You see, Harry’s still got his map …”

She rushed through the explanation, trying not to think about the fact that she now knew far more about how the four boys who’d created the map had treated Snape than he’d be at all comfortable with, even if she hadn’t witnessed it the way Harry had.

Snape’s expression grew more and more sour as he listened, and when she’d finished, he scowled. “I thought the map was Lupin’s,” he said, and if the words were innocuous, his tone was not. It was venomous.

“Yes, well, the thing is,” Hermione rushed on, “the minute Harry looks at that map he’s going to be able to see ‘Severus Snape’ and he’ll _know_.”

“So I am to be confined to quarters?” Snape sneered.

Hermione shook her head. “The map will show you there, too. Just about everywhere shows on the map, except some of the special rooms.”

“It may _show_ me, but I assure you, it won’t gain Potter entrance.”

“Oh, that’ll work!” Hermione snapped. “What, you don’t answer your door and Harry will write it off as a glitch in the map? Because that’s one thing _everybody_ knows about Harry Potter, it’s that he isn’t interested in solving mysteries and he gives up easily!”

He regarded her a moment, eyes narrowed, and then the corner of his mouth turned up slightly. “That’s two things. But I concede your point. Which are the rooms that don’t show up on this _map_?”

Hermione bit her lip. “I’m not sure I should tell you.”

The hint of a smile vanished. “So much for Gryffindor promises,” he said coldly.

Hermione folded her arms. “You know I’m not the only old student teaching here this year? Ron and Harry are teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts. Neville Longbottom is working with Professor Sprout. Luna is helping Hagrid, and Ginny Weasley is coaching Quidditch. It’s a bit much to be a coincidence.”

Snape shrugged slightly. “Minerva grows nostalgic.”

“Minerva McGonagall is about as nostalgic as my left boot. She _didn_ _’t_ expect you to let me know you were here, you know, she was surprised by that. She expected me to have to work it out, don’t you think? With the help of the people who’ve had so much practice solving mysteries in this very school?”

“You mean,” Snape said with distaste, “she’s _meddling._ ”

“You made her promise, like I promised, not to tell anyone. But she as good as told me yesterday that you’re ill. Or in some sort of trouble.  That you need help —”

He leaned forward slightly, and Hermione had to fight the urge to step back. “I do _not_ need,” he hissed, low and menacing, “your _help_ , Granger. Except to hide myself from Potter’s infernal map, and you have already refused _that_ assistance.”

“I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone,” Hermione said. “And I won’t. But that doesn’t mean I have to get in the way of people figuring it out. I don’t think I _should_.” She studied him. Perhaps his sallow pallor was only the result of living entirely indoors, but she didn’t think so, not with the bruised shadows beneath his eyes. “You might not need _my_ help, Professor, but I think you need help from someone, and not to hide.”

She hadn’t been able to help him, five years early. _None of us could._ Not when he lay dying, not for any of his long, dangerous — and surely lonely — years as Dumbledore’s finest spy.    

_Please let us help you now._

“I assure you I am entirely capable of managing my own affairs without the assistance of a gaggle of former students,” Snape said coldly, and turned to leave. 

Hermione bit her lip. _He_ did _ask for my help with_ something _._ “The Room of Requirement,” she said. “The Marauder’s Map doesn’t show anyone who is inside the Room of Requirement. Harry knows that, though. Once he works out you’re in there … ”

Snape glanced over his shoulder. “I think I can avoid being trapped by Harry Potter,” he sneered.

Hermione smiled. “So did Voldemort,” she pointed out, and was surprised when, just for an instant, Snape smiled back at her.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve completely made up the historical stuff. Someone I can’t reply to directly asked what the title had to do with the story — well, the story originally started somewhat after where it ended up starting, with only a quick introduction, so you would have met Maisie Wilkins early on. However, the bits in-between kept growing, and so here we are at chapter 14 and the students haven’t even arrived for the new school year! However, Maisie Wilkins and her search for the Quidditch Key do exist, and will be making their appearance in due course.  
> Also, shameless begging for feedback! It’s a fanfic writer’s only reward.


	15. Chapter 15: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The D.A. narrow down the possibilities …

 

Hermione was deep in thought as she made her way to the entrance doors to meet the others. As soon as they were safely outside, Snape would be making his way to the Room of Requirement to hide. _That_ _’ll fool Harry for a while, but not forever._

She _couldn_ _’t_ tell anyone that he was there, but she hadn’t made him any promises to prevent the others from working it out on their own. She and Minerva McGonagall were in a similar position, it seemed, although the Headmistress clearly had more information than Hermione had.

    _That_ _’s alright_. She had every confidence that Harry and Ron would work it out for themselves. _And then we can all put our minds to working out what sort of trouble he_ _’s in, that Minerva thinks he needs help with_.

_Even if he is just as nasty and disagreeable as ever_.

She had to admit to a little bit of disappointment about that. In the years since his presumed death, she’d wondered from time to time if it had been an act, and had gradually allowed herself to believe that it had been. Snape’s story was so sad, his actions so brave, his sacrifice so great, that it had seemed impossible the sneering, sarcastic teacher who had so often humiliated her could be the true face of Severus Snape.

Finding a patch of sunlight to wait for the others, Hermione grinned to herself. _Well, that_ _’s me shown up as an idiot_.

He had made a great many suggestions on her lesson plan, written all over it in fact, and they were admittedly useful, even if he’d explained them with his usual mockery. He’d taken her ‘homework’ with a raised eyebrow and muttered that he had too much to do to mark it, so she shouldn’t hold her breath. He had also noted down the protective charms he used to keep his clothes from being regularly ruined by the inevitable accidents. They were slightly different to the ones Hermione already knew, and she was sure they’d be more effective. She was determined to be grateful to Snape for providing them, although the disdain with which he’d looked her up and down and sneered _although it hardly seems worth the effort if you intend to wear that absurd get up_ made gratitude a bit difficult.

_Well, so what? Snape is still Snape, that_ _’s all. It doesn’t mean he didn’t do all the things you know he did. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve to be helped out with whatever problem he’s got._  

_It just means he_ _’s going to be as snide and rude as possible to us while we do it._

“There you are!” Ginny sat down on the steps beside Hermione. “I meant to come down and give you a hand with your stock-take, but then I remembered that I was nearly out of handle polish and I had to nip off to the Owlery.”

Hermione turned away for a moment to hide her smile. _Professor Snape must have set something similar to the charms they used to keep Muggles away from the stadium for the Quidditch grand finals. He must have put quite a punch in it to affect someone as single-minded as Ginny._ “It’s alright,” she said, when she could trust her voice. “It didn’t take long. Professor Slughorn kept everything in pretty good order.” 

“Are you nervous?” Ginny asked. “I’d be nervous.”

“I’m petrified,” Hermione said.

Ginny leaned over and pinched her, and when Hermione jumped and yelped, the red-head grinned. “Nope, not petrified.”

Hermione rubbed her arm. “ _Figuratively_ petrified. Everyone from Minerva to my house elf keeps telling me to dress the part, but I’m still not sure what the part actually _is._ ”

“Maybe it’s just _you_ , but more so.” Ginny leaned back to look up at the sky. “I mean, that’s what everyone else does, isn’t it? Professor McGonagall is dignified and sharp-tongued, even when she’s being friendly, except _especially_ when she’s teaching. Filius is exactly like you’d think he’d be, when you talk to him, from having been in his class.”

_And Professor Snape is exactly the same as a colleague as he was as a teacher._ “Ginny, you’re remarkably clever.”

“I know,” Ginny said smugly. “Don’t tell Harry, though, he likes to show off.”

Hermione elbowed her. “Harry knows better than to underestimate you. He’d better, or I’ll have _words_.”

“How about you?” Ginny’s tone was overly casual. “Anyone special?”

Hermione snorted. “Yes, that’s me, the sort of sweet young witch every wizard wants to sweep off her feet.”

“I happen to personally know three young, handsome wizards who would happily sweep you off your feet if only you gave them the slightest encouragement.”

“Who?” Hermione demanded. 

“Oliver Wood —”

Hermione groaned. “Quidditch mad.”

“Marcus Diggleby. He doesn’t know a Seeker from a Bludger, if that helps.”

“It does, but he’s so _damp_.”

“He just needs a good anti-perspiration charm, and a bright young witch like you could help him with that easily. No?” Ginny glanced her. “No. Alright, what about the Man of Mystery?”

Hermione frowned. “Who?”

“Nobody knows, that’s why he’s the Man of Mystery. But he’s in potions, so you’d have plenty to talk about.”

“Ginny, what on earth are you going on about?”

“Merlin’s left buttock,” Ginny said, laughing. “You bury yourself in the lab far too much. _Someone_ wrote a letter to the Ministry last year with a recipe for a new healing salve. Surely you heard about it?”

“I knew there was an improvement,” Hermione said. “Actually, I analysed it. Draco wanted an assessment on the potential for mass production, but without the patent, it wasn’t profitable. It really was a very ingenious variation.” She rubbed her arm, where the silvery scar had almost faded to invisibility due to that very same ingenious variation.

“Well, the letter was anonymous. They tried to trace the owl — I mean, someone who can do that sort of work, the Ministry wanted him on the payroll — but it turned out to be from one of those public owleries, and they never could find out where the letter came from.” Ginny shrugged. “So they’ve been calling him the Man of Mystery.”

“It could just as easily be the Woman of Mystery,” Hermione pointed out.

“It could, but it doesn’t sound as good.”

“So you’re suggesting I date either ‘a’, someone with whom I have absolutely nothing in common —”

“Who has _very_ nice legs.”

“— ‘b’ someone who I could, potentially, _charm_ into a bit of sex appeal, or ‘c’, an anonymous potioneer who could be a woman or could be a hundred and seventeen for all you know.”

“That’s about the size of it,” Ginny agreed cheerfully. “Or you could, you know, go out for a drink every now and again and _meet_ people.”

“They stare,” Hermione said.

“Stare back,” Ginny advised. “That’s what I do. Look, there’s Neville!”

She jumped to her feet and waved her arms over her head. Neville waved back, and quickened his pace towards them.

“It’s good to see you, Ginny,” Neville said, lifting her off the ground in a hug. Then a look of concern crossed his face, and he set her down quickly. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? I heard you were spending more time here to see Poppy —”

“I’m fine, Neville,” Ginny assured him.

“Luna said she’d meet us at the stones,” Neville said. “So we’re just waiting for —”

“Us,” Ron said, jumping down the last few steps. “So let’s go.” 

They started off towards Hagrid’s hut, chattering and laughing in the warm morning sunlight. My silent mutual agreement, none of them broached the topic they were most interested in discussing: Neville talked about what it had been like to teach some of Professor Sprout’s classes the previous year, Ginny explained her plans for her coaching, and Ron held forth on the topic of which of their D.A.D.A teachers had been the most hopeless.

“Penny for them.” Hermione, lost in thought, realised Harry had dropped back from the others to walk with her. The Muggle expression — one that none of the others would understand — made her smile.

“I was just thinking about being back here, with all of you.”

“You weren’t, though,” Harry said. “You were thinking about this secret you’re keeping.”

 “How did you —?”

“You were biting your lip,” Harry said. “Ron says you’ve got a right to keep it, and it’s not harming you. Is he right?”

“Yes,” Hermione said firmly. “And Harry, if I could tell you, I would — and I _will_ tell you that I think you’ll work it out for yourself, and I hope you do — but I gave my word.”

“Good enough for me,” he said easily, and slung an arm around her shoulders. “Although I’ve got one hand tied behind my back, haven’t I, if you can’t help me.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t _help_ you,” Hermione said. “Just that I couldn’t _tell_ you.”

He laughed. “And it’s too much to hope that you’ll lead us to the shortcuts, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “I won’t cheat.”

Harry laughed again. “Of course you won’t. Thank you for answering my question.”

Hermione pulled away a little, frowning.  “I didn’t tell you anything.”

“Oh, but you did.” He let her go, and they followed the others side by side. “You, Hermione Granger, have no quibbles about cheating, or lying, or breaking the rules — when it’s called for. Which means that whoever you made this promise to is someone you like and respect. You’d find a way around any promise you made to the Gilderoy Lockharts of this world, and you’d break one you made to someone like Umbridge without hesitation. You’re determined to keep this one, which tells me the sort of person you’ve made it to.”

The others had met up with Luna, and turned aside from the path. Harry and Hermione followed them.

“Tell me this, if you can,” Harry said, just before they caught them up. “If your promise doesn’t prevent you. This person — Ron thinks they’re in trouble. Is he right?”

Hermione went carefully over the exact words she’d used. “Yes,” she said after a moment, and thinking of the deep grooves that bracketed Snape’s mouth, the tone of his skin, “And I think really bad trouble.”

Harry nodded. “Alright, then. We’ll just have to sort it.”

The lot of them sat down on the grass in a loose half-circle. Hermione cast a quick and discreet Muffliato and Harry followed it up with a Disillusionment Charm powerful enough to make Hermione’s ears pop.

“Lip-reading,” he explained, tucking his wand away. “Right. Ron filled me in last night, but I think we need to go through what everyone knows, to start.”

No-one questioned his right to take charge. “There have been strange doings in the dungeons,” Luna said. “According to _The Prophet_ , five parents complained to Minerva that their students had been frightened by a monster down there last year.”

“What sort of monster?” Harry asked.

Luna shrugged. “Reports varied. So I’m thinking probably a Boggart, although that still leaves the question of why none of the teachers dealt with it.”

“I asked Nearly Headless Nick about the new ghost in the dungeons,” Neville contributed. “He said I had to talk to the Bloody Baron about it, but I couldn’t find the Baron.”

“But he said there _is_ a new ghost?” Harry asked.

Neville screwed up his face, remembering. “Actually, no, not exactly. I _asked_ about the new ghost, and he said ‘the one you need to talk to is the Baron’.”

Harry nodded to Ron, who leaned forward. “I talked to Professor Dumbledore and Headmaster Black, and they as good as _told_ me that one of the teachers is in some sort of trouble, and Professor McGonagall can’t _ask_ for us to help.” He shot a quick look at Hermione, and she fixed her gaze on her hands. “And they confirmed it’s not a curse or a spell that stops her. She’s not under any compulsion, and it’s not something that would hurt the school.”

“Which means she’s made a promise.” Harry shot Hermione a quick glance. “To someone she trusts, which fits with the idea it’s a teacher.” He pulled a folded parchment from his pocket. “I’ve made a list of who it might be. These are in alphabetical order. Weigh in with your opinions, everyone.”

They all nodded, and he began. “Firenze.”

“A centaur wouldn’t be stupid enough to insist someone kept a promise when it hurt them,” Luna said. “That’s a very human thing to do, isn’t it?”

“Professor Binns.”

“He’s dead!” Ron said.

“He might still need something,” Luna pointed out. “Ghosts do pass on now and then, you know. Maybe he wants to.”

Harry made a mark on the parchment. “Filch.”

“Too nasty to have anything really bad happen to him,” Ron said, and Hermione nodded agreement. 

“Madam Hooch.”

A general silence. “Right, Ginny. You’re the best person to get close to her. Madam Hooch is your assignment. Professor Sprout.”

“No way,” Neville said. “I’d have noticed.”

“If she was keeping it secret?” Hermione asked.

Neville nodded firmly. “I spend most of every day with her. She’s the same as always. It’s not Pomona, I’d stake my life on it.”

“Alright,” Harry said. “Professor Flitwick? Anyone?” There was another silence. “Flitwick’s a candidate.”

“I can keep an eye on him,” Ron said. “I would be, anyway. Charms and D.A.D.A have a lot in common.”

“Hagrid.”

Hermione snorted. “Hagrid? All we need to do is ask, if it’s Hagrid.”

“What about Professor McGonagall herself?” Harry asked.

Ron shook his head. “I really had the feeling from what the pictures said that she’s made the promise on _to_ someone, know what I mean?”

Harry nodded. “Madam Pomfrey. Anyone?”

“I’ll be spending time with her as well,” Ginny offered. “I can feel her out, too.”

“And Professor Sinistra?”

“I’ll talk to her,” Hermione offered. “And to Professor Vector, too. I always did well in her classes.”

“That just leaves Professor Trelawney and Madam Pince.”

“I’ll talk to Professor Trelawney,” Neville said, with a slightly long-suffering air.

“And I’ll talk to Madam Pince,” Hermione offered.

“That leaves me doing nothing,” Harry said.

“Except breaking a twenty-year-old curse,” Luna said.

Harry grinned. “Except that. I’ll check out Binns, as well. Just in case. Alright. Let’s go and see what Hagrid’s keeping as a pet this year.” He rose to his feet. “Last chance to get a bet down, everyone.”

Hermione headed down the hill with Luna and Neville.

Harry and Ron lagged behind, and so Hermione didn’t hear Harry muttering, “You catch that?’

“Yeah.” Ron’s voice was equally quiet. “It’s not Sinistra, Vector, or Pince, or Hermione would have given then to one of us to check out.”

Harry nodded. “That leaves Flitwick, Hooch, Pomfrey and Trelawney. And Binns.”

“Five,” Ron said. “What do you think, a week?”

Harry grinned at him. “At the most.”


	16. Chapter 16: Harry Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny and Harry try to concentrate.

 

“I don’t think it’s Madam Hooch,” Ginny whispered. She shifted her weight a little, and Harry bit back a groan.

They were in the small, single room in Gryffindor Tower that was Ginny’s for the moment, the first moment they’d had together in private for two days, and what had been intended as a debriefing session on their investigation had quickly turned into an enthusiastic and horizontal reunion.

Harry managed to regain enough higher brain functions to ask, “Why not?”

“Do you really want to talk about this now?” she whispered.

“Not really, no.” What he really wanted to do was take her back to Grimmauld Place, by Floo or Apparition _or by bloody broomstick_ , and to take her to bed for the next week.  “But we have to, don’t we?”

Ginny sat back, which didn’t really make it easier for Harry to concentrate. “I’ve spent a week with her. She’s never been exactly _subtle_ , you know. She’s just exactly the same as she always was.”

“What about Poppy Pomfrey?”

Ginny frowned. “I don’t know. I never knew her that well. I think you and Hermione and Ron spent more time in the Hospital Wing than I ever did.”

He reached up to run his fingers through her hair, its vivid red drained of colour in the moonlight streaming through the window. “But you think something’s wrong.”

“I don’t, not exactly, it’s just …” She shrugged. “She seems sad. But … I haven’t seen her more than a couple of times since it all happened. And it must have been truly awful for her, you know? Everyone we buried was someone she’d patched up and worried over and cured. So perhaps she’s just sad, now.”

“Binns is the same as ever,” Harry said. “If he’s got a desire to go towards the light, it’s well hidden.”

 “Three more down, then,” Ginny said cheerfully, and Harry grinned. “So it’s Trelawney or Flitwick. And I can’t see it being Trelawney, really.”

“Because she would have seen it coming, whatever it is?”

Ginny giggled. “No, I just don’t think she’d be able to hide it from anyone. She’d get into the sherry in the staffroom and tell the world.”

“In the most dramatic terms possible,” Harry agreed. “Filius Flitwick, then.” He frowned. “I hope it’s nothing too terrible.”

“We’ll deal with it, whatever it is.” Ginny shrugged. “We always do. And M-Minerva —” She stumbled a little over the familiarity. “Thinks we’re up to it, doesn’t she? Or she wouldn’t have arranged for us to be here.”

“I just wish, if someone’s in trouble, it could be someone I don’t particularly _like_ ,” Harry said. “Oh, well. Ron’s been talking Flitwick’s ear off about the use of non-combat charms in combat, and he’s agreed to do a demonstration duel in one of our D.A.D.A classes. That’ll give us a chance to do a bit of discreet probing.”

“Sorting tomorrow,” Ginny said with a faraway expression on her face. “It’s going to be strange, with the new Heads of House.”

“Pomona Sprout and Filius are the same,” Harry said. “Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. And I think Madam Hooch is a good choice for Gryffindor. I don’t know Aurora Sinistra well enough to know how she’ll do with Slytherin, but we have to trust Minerva’s judgement.”  

“It seems … _wrong_ , having a Head of Slytherin who isn’t the Potions Master.” Ginny absently-mindedly traced a circle on Harry’s chest.

“I think Hermione’s going to have enough on her plate, teaching for the first time.” He captured her hand and kissed it. “She _is_ alright, isn’t she?”

“Well, she’s staying up half the night rewriting her lesson plans, and she’s done a practice run brewing every potion for every class all the way through to November, and she’s changed her mind five, no, _six_ times about what she should wear,” Ginny said. “So, yeah, she’s alright.”

“Why don’t you tell her tomorrow morning that we’ve worked out it’s Filius,” Harry suggested. “That should take at least one weight off her mind.”

Ginny nodded. “She asked me to meet her in her classroom after breakfast, so that’s perfect. Something about a demonstration for her first year class.” She sighed. “I wish you could stay here tonight.”

“I do too.” Harry drew her closer and kissed her in demonstration. “But there’s this curse …”

“What you need to do, is make a list of all the D.A.D.A teachers and what happened to them,” Ginny said. “That will give you the sort of shape of the jinx, won’t it?”

Harry nodded. “I’m working on it. The records are a bit patchy, but it seems clear that it isn’t always something terrible. I mean, there was one teacher who only turned up to class one day in ten, and as a result he was shown the door at the end of the year. Ron and I only plan to stay for the year no matter what, so we’ve probably fulfilled the conditions of the jinx already.”

“So the curse is on the school, really, isn’t it?” Ginny said. “Not the person.”

Harry nodded. “On something _in_ the school, too. Otherwise it would have dissipated when Tom Riddle died.” He scratched his head. “But we’ve been right through the classroom and the quarters, and there’s nothing. We even checked the teacher’s table in the Great Hall and all the cutlery and crockery, in case it was there. And I’ve been racking my brains to think of what else the D.A.D.A teacher could be absolutely _guaranteed_ to come into contact with.”

“The gates?” Ginny suggested.

“Bloody hell, that’s right. The gates, the front doors … I’ll check them first thing tomorrow.” He looked at his watch, and groaned a little. “Ginny, I’ve got to go.”

Reluctantly, she wriggled off his lap. “You know, there’s one good thing about being back in Hogwarts and not being students.” 

He raised his eyebrows and stood up. “And what’s that? Because right at this moment I think it’s the worst thing in the world.”

“Well, what with all the getting-ready-to-save-the-world and so on when we were at school, we never _did_ get to carry on that fine old Hogwarts tradition of making out in the off-limits corridors after lights out …”

It was a fine mental image, and it took Harry a moment to find his voice. “Right. Well, I’m properly motivated now. I’ll break that jinx tomorrow or die trying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all my readers, and thanks for the feedback so far! Remember, feedback breeds plot-bunnies.


	17. Chapter 17: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The students return for a new school year

 

Hermione sat in her place at the teacher’s table, hoping that none of her whirling thoughts showed on her face. _The last thing I want is for my future students to have their first impression of their Potions Professor be that she_ _’s a distracted flibbertigibbet._

Several times over the past week she’d tried to check that Professor Snape was safely tucked away in the Room of Requirement, but every time circumstances had conspired to defeat her. First Ron and Harry had met her in the corridor and assumed that she was heading for the anti-eavesdropping form of the Room.  Then Filch had spent an entire afternoon mopping the corridor, looking suspiciously at everyone who passed. _Caught a house elf taking food in,_ he’d grunted when Hermione asked him if the floor was possibly now as clean as it would ever get. _Something_ _’s going on, you mark my words._

 Then Neville has asked for her help trying to find the Bloody Baron — who had made himself so scarce even the other ghosts weren’t sure where he was.

Every day, she’d hoped that Harry would announce that he’d spotted Snape on the Marauder’s Map. The fact that he hadn’t, combined with Flich’s story of a house elf taking food into the Room, made her think that Snape _was_ tucked safely away in one of the Room’s many forms.

Worse, though, was Ginny’s blithe announcement that Harry had worked out it was Filius Flitwick who was in need of their help. Hermione had asked _Is he sure?_ The disappointment in her voice was clear enough to _her_ , but apparently not to Ginny.

Hermione tried not to let her frustration show on her face and looked out over the hall. 

The older years had arrived, and taken their places. There was a low buzz of chatter up and down the four long tables as friends exchanged news of their summers. From the frequent glances cast at the teachers, Hermione could guess that plenty of those conversations involved a fair bit of speculation about the new faces, too. One boy staring at her accidentally met her gaze, and blushed. Hermione gave him a small smile. _Distant, yet approachable,_ that was her aim. _Friendly, but not familiar. Firm, but not ferocious._

 Harry was getting most of the curious looks, and he returned them with a cheerful smile. _He_ didn’t need to worry about keeping their respect. _The Boy Who Lived could run naked down the Gryffindor table and they_ _’d still stare at him with awe._

On Harry’s other side, Ginny had arranged her face into a cheerful yet slightly remote expression. Hermione leaned back in her chair and whispered behind Harry’s back, “How are you doing that? With your face?”

“I’m imagining it’s an autograph signing session,” Ginny whispered back.

_Of course_. Ginny and the rest of her team probably had training sessions on how to give the right impression at public events.

Ron was deep in conversation with Professor Flitwick. Hermione bit her lip, realised she was doing it and made herself stop. She’d spent most of the day trying to work out whether it was breaking her promise to Professor Snape to tell flat-out tell Harry he was on the wrong track.

She still hadn’t reached a decision. _And I won_ _’t worry about it now_. If she did, she’d spend the meal scowling like Snape.

The great doors at the end of the hall swung open, and Hagrid led the new students in.

_Merlin_ _’s pants, they’re so young!_ At the time, terrified of failing some test of magic as she’d been, Hermione had certainly not felt _young_ , but there in front of her was the evidence that she must have been. _They_ _’re just little children!_

They lined up for the Sorting Hat, staring up at the enchanted ceiling and the floating candles with the same wide-eyed awe that Hermione had remembered feeling.

“It’s a _hat_ ,” one of the first year students hissed in a carrying whisper. “Are we supposed to enchant it? I don’t know any spells for hats!”

And then that student, and all the other first year students, stepped back a little as the Sorting Hat made a throat clearing noise and began.

“ _In days long past four wizards wise_

_Set out to found a school._

_To teach, to train, to supervise_

_To provide young minds with fuel._

_Their cause was one but not their minds_

_Each sought students as they were_

_And every House was soon aligned_

_As Founder_ _’s choices recurred.”_

“That’s a terrible rhyme,” Harry whispered to Hermione. She elbowed him.

_“Slytherin, who dressed in green, to greatness did aspire._

_Gryffindor in gold was brave and bold_

_Ravenclaw_ _’s knowledge rose like a spire,_

_While kind Hufflepuff with hard work toiled_

_To make the choice, they whipped up me!_

_The smartest hat you_ _’ll ever see._

_Step up, step up, and put me on_

_I_ _’ll sort you out, I’m never wrong.”_

“I think maybe it hasn’t fully recovered from being set on fire,” Hermione murmured as they all applauded.

Professor Sinistra, as Deputy Headmistress, stepped forward and unrolled a long sheet of parchment. “When your name is called, come forward, and place the hat upon your head. When you have been sorted, go and sit at the table of your House. Aitkins, Colin!”

A skinny boy with mouse-brown hair crept forward, not looking at all delighted to be first, and nervously placed the hat on his head.

“Hufflepuff!” the Sorting Hat shouted immediately.

The Hufflepuff table cheered and Professor Sprout beamed.

And, as they’d planned ahead of time, the former members of Dumbledore’s Army rose to their feet, clapping hard. “Well done, Colin!” Harry called.

“Hufflepuff’s a _grand_ house,” Luna put in.

“Congratulations, Colin!” Neville shouted.

Hermione could _feel_ the weight of Minerva McGonagall’s assessing look, but she ignored it.

“Ayersley, Lisa!” was the next name, and a round-faced girl with thick glasses and close-cropped kinky hair came forward, more confidently than Colin Aitkins.

The Hat considered for a moment, and then cried, “Slytherin!”

Lisa Ayersley’s shoulders slumped and there was an awkward silence.

Broken by Harry. “Good for you, Lisa!” he said loudly. “The bravest man I ever knew was from Slytherin!”

“You must be bound for greatness,” Hermione contributed. She could see some of the older students at the Slytherin table looking surprised. One or two of them sneered a little. _Not happy at being praised by a mudblood_.

_Well, bollocks to them. Draco might be dead wrong about the Slytherins being all helpless victims of their circumstances, but he_ is _right about the harm ostracism can do._

The Hat went on sorting — Ravenclaw, Slytherin, Hufflepuff twice and then a run of three Gryffindors — and Dumbledore’s Army went on cheering every sorting, praising each house. _Hogwarts: A History_ had provided Hermione with an exhaustive list of brilliant Hufflepuffs, brave Ravenclaws, cunning Gryffindors and generous Slytherins and she used their names freely. Ginny and Ron had obviously decided to play to their strengths, and kept up a running commentary of the great Quidditch victories and players of each House.

Hagrid got into the spirit of things, giving a great cheer with every Sorting and escorting the student over to their House table with a beam. By the time the Hat had worked its way through the alphabet, students from every table were applauding every time a student was sorted, regardless of which House they were sent to.

Finally only one student was left: a sturdy-looking girl with a cap of short fair hair. She hurried up to the Hat as soon as _Wilkins, Maisie_ was called and put it on.

This time, the silence stretched on. Hermione bit her lip, aware that some of the students were fidgeting nervously. _Come on, Hat!_

As if it had heard her, the Hat immediately shouted, “Hufflepuff!”

“Hooray for the mighty badger!” Luna said happily as most of the hall broke out into applause.

Maisie Wilkins hurried over to the Hufflepuff table, looking happy enough, and the Sorting was done for another year.

Minerva McGonagall rose and went to the lectern. “It is my very great pleasure to welcome you all to another year at Hogwarts,” she said in a clear, carrying voice. “Since I know how foolish it is to expect young people to pay attention when they’re hungry, I will only say: dinner is served.”

That got another cheer. Laden serving dishes appeared along the tables, and everyone turned to the serious business of eating.

“That was a good thing you did, Harry,” Hagrid said as he piled his plate high. “And the rest of ye, o’course.”

The Headmistress pursed her lips. “Did it occur to you, _Professor_ Potter, to mention your plans to your Headmistress?”

“It did,” Harry said steadily. “But I thought you might consider it undignified.”

She sniffed. “In the future, although I know it goes directly against your natural inclinations, I would appreciate it if you would ask permission rather than require forgiveness.”

Harry didn’t look in the slightest bit intimidated. “So am I forgiven, then?”

“Since, unfortunately, teachers can’t be given detention, I suppose I have no choice,” Minerva said, but Hermione was almost certain her mouth softened into what was almost a smile. “Are you all prepared for your first day of teaching tomorrow?”

“I hope so,” Hermione said fervently. _What if it goes wrong? What if the potion base is expired and I just can_ _’t tell? What if —_

Minerva patted her hand. “You’ll be fine. I have every confidence.”

Hermione looked up and down the table. “Who will be teaching Transfiguration?” she asked. “I don’t see any new faces.”

“Girvyn Graves will be arriving back soon,” Minerva said. “He planned to be here yesterday, but there was an unfortunate incident involving a student from Beauxbatons and Madame Maxime asked for his help.”

“An unfortunate incident?” Harry asked.

“Nothing Dark, Auror Potter,” Minerva assured him. “A young woman attempted to Transfigure herself a new dress … and managed to Transfigure herself _into_ a new dress. She seems to have quite powerful magic, or at least magic that’s fairly odd, and there’s been some difficulty turning her back.”

“At least she doesn’t have a tail,” Hermione said.

“I think she’d probably prefer to have a tail,” Minerva said. She gave a small smile. “I certainly would. At any rate, I’ll have to find time to teach the class myself until Girvyn returns.”

Ginny leaned forward to talk past Harry and Hermione. “I can help, if you’d like. I’m no expert, but I did get Exceeds Expectations on my N.E.W.Ts and that should be enough for the first and second classes, at least.”

“That’s very kind of you, Miss Weasley,” Minerva said, “and I’ll certainly take advantage of you. Come to my office first thing tomorrow.”

Hermione bit her lip, and Ginny smiled at her. “Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten. I’ll make it in time for your first years.”

“Are you going to poison Ginny as a demonstration?” Harry asked.

Hermione grinned at him. “Not _poison_ , no. Exactly.”


	18. Chapter 18: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione's first day teaching

 

For the fifth time, Hermione caught herself fiddling with her wand, and put it back down on her desk.

She’d finally managed to sneak away to the Room of Requirement after everyone else had gone to bed last night, thinking hard _I need to find where Severus Snape is hiding_ , and the Room’s magic had let her into a surprisingly comfortable suite of rooms, complete with armchairs by the fireplace and shelves and shelves of books.

The man himself had been lounging in one of those chairs and reading one of those books. Hermione had nervously set out her plan to introduce new students to the art of potion-brewing. If she’d expected praise, or reassurance, she was disappointed: Snape had raised an eyebrow dangerously high and said only one word.

 _Ambitious_.

Hermione snorted at the memory. _The nerve of him, to use the very quality his own House holds so dear to insult me. I suppose Gryffindors aren_ _’t allowed to be ambitious?_

She settled her teaching robe more securely over her shoulders. Beneath it she wore clothes that would have passed, in the Muggle world, as ‘smart casual’ — a light jumper with sleeves wide enough for her wand in a slightly shimmery bronze, and wool slacks charmed to the same colour. Dragon-hide boots sturdy enough to resist even the most corrosive spilt potion — even without her protective spells — completed her outfit. _Be yourself, only more so_ , had been Ginny’s advice, and Hermione had decided that she was a Muggle-born witch who lived as easily in the Muggle world as the wizarding one, and she wasn’t going to pretend otherwise.

“Here I am,” Ginny cried, hurrying through the door with a student in tow. Hermione saw that it was little Maisie Wilkins, last sorted the night before. “I haven’t explained it to her yet, but she said she’s game.” She looked down at Maisie. “You are game, aren’t you?”

Maisie nodded. “For anything.”

“Well, this won’t hurt,” Hermione said, “at least, it’ll be a bit uncomfortable for Ginny and me, but it won’t hurt _you_.”

“Except for the hair-pulling,” Ginny said.

Maisie’s hand went to her head. Hermione thought it was in instinctive protest, but the girl screwed up her face and tugged hard. She held her hand out. “This enough?”

“That’s brilliant,” Hermione said. “Now, this is what we’re going to do …”

Ten minutes later, when the first year students filed in for their very first ever lesson in potions, they found Maisie Wilkins already at her desk, cauldron in front of her and her books neatly stacked. Professor Granger leaned against her desk at the front of the room, and if her stance had an athletic grace a touch unusual for someone who spent most of her life stooped over a cauldron, the students didn’t notice. They took their seats, whispering to each other, gazing around the shelves of obscure ingredients with mingled interest and anxiety.

“There’s potions in here that can do _anything_ ,” Colin Aitkins whispered to Maisie. “If we could get into the Library — there’s a part that has the most amazing books, it’s called the Restricted Section, and —”

Professor Granger cleared her throat. “As was once said to me, there will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class,” she said. “As such —”

The door flew open again, and Maisie Wilkins walked in. “I’m sorry I’m late, Professor, I —”

The two Maisies stared at each other.

“Impostor!” the seated Maisie cried.

“ _You_ are!” the standing Maisie protested. “You’ve stolen my face!”

“It’s _my_ face, look!” Maisie-at-the-bench pinched her own cheek and tugged it. Beside her, Colin Aitkins edged away.

Maisie-at-the-door stamped her foot. “Stop looking like me this instant!”

“ _You_ stop looking like _me_!”

Colin reached the end of the desk, and the two Ravenclaw students at the next table grabbed his arms and pulled him to a safer distance.

“We seem to have a dilemma,” Professor Granger said. She picked up her wand from the desk and pointed it first at the Maisie standing by the door, and then at the Maisie sitting down, saying “Revelio! Revelio!”

Nothing happened.

“Oh, dear,” she said, not sounding the least alarmed. “What strange manner of thing is this? What can we do?”

There was a tense silence until finally one of the Ravenclaw students seemed to realise it was an actual question, not a rhetorical remark.  He raised his hand, and Professor Granger gave him a nod. “Professor, we could ask her family if she has any birthmarks, and check.”

“I do!” Maisie by the door said promptly. She pushed up her sleeve and showed four fat freckles in a perfect square.

“Me too!” seated Maisie responded, pushing up her sleeve to show the exact same freckles.

“No points to Ravenclaw,” Professor Granger said. “What _else_ can we do?”

 Another hand went up: Colin Aitkins. “We could ask them questions that only Maisie would know.”

The professor nodded. “That’s what we did during the war. Five points to Hufflepuff. Does anyone know any questions that only Maisie would know the answer to?”

Colin’s hand went up again, and at Professor Granger’s nod, he said, “What was the first thing you said to me?”

“I hope you don’t get train-sick,” Maisie by the door said quickly.

“That’s right, Professor Granger!” Colin said. “She’s the real one!”

As one, the other students rose and backed away from the Maisie who sat at the desk. A few had their wands out.

“Wands _away_ ,” Professor Granger said quickly.

Colin ignored her. “You tell us who you are right now! Or I’ll _hex_ you!”

The seated Maisie got to her feet slowly. “I’ve never put much stock in Divination,” she said, raising her cauldron over her head. “I will, however, predict that you’re about to be embarrassed to have said that.”

The freshly-brewed batch of Thief’s Downfall splashed over Hermione’s head. She felt it strip the Polyjuice change from her and quickly dropped her wand from her sleeve to her hand, enlarging her clothes. _Let_ _’s not start the school year flashing the students, shall we?_

The entire class of students stared agape as their Potions Professor emerged from the illusion of their classmate, and then turned to stare at the Professor Granger at the front of the class. 

“Pass the cauldron, will you?” the original Professor said, and when the new Professor sent it across the room with a flick of her wand, she tipped the rest of the contents over her head. Her hair reddened, freckles appeared across the bridge of her nose, and she was unmistakably —

“Gosh, that’s _Weasley_ ,” said a stunned voice.

“Miss Wilkins, thank you for your co-operation,” Hermione said. “Mr Aitkins, I will refrain from the usual point deduction for threatening to hex a teacher, under the circumstances, but I do advise you to leave the Restricted Section alone unless you are tired of having all of your fingers.”

“Need me for anything else?” Ginny asked.

“No, thank you, Madam Weasley,” Hermione said.

“My pleasure, Professor Granger,” Ginny said. Hermione heard her muttering something about _wait_ _‘til I tell George_ on her way out the door.

With a wave of her wand, Hermione cleared up the splashes of potion on the floor and benches. “Please take your seats again. Thank you. Now. Who can tell me why Madam Weasley’s Revelio didn’t unmask me?” 

Colin’s hand shot up. Hermione waited until a few other hands raised tentatively. “Mr Aitkins.”

“Because you used a potion,” he said promptly.

“Correct. Which potion?” Colin’s hand waved immediately and Hermione smiled at him. “I know you know, Mr Aitkins. You’ve already earned your House points this lesson, and the others should have a chance too.”

He looked disappointed, but he nodded and lowered his hand, and Hermione called on another student.

By the time the lesson was over she’d led them through the crucial difference between potions and charms — that potions were just as powerful when used by someone with little or no magic as by someone with a great deal, depending as they did on the ability of the brewer — the most common uses of potions, and some of the more extravagant and spectacular potions they would brew over the years ahead. “Miss Wilkins, Mr Aitkins, could you wait behind a moment?”

The other students filed out, talking excitedly, and the two she’d named approached her desk. Respectfully, but not fearfully, Hermione was pleased to note. “Miss Wilkins, thank you again for your assistance. You are certainly a better actor than Madam Weasley. You didn’t answer any of my questions, though.”

“I knew a lot of the answers,” Maisie said. “But it didn’t seem fair, since I did have more time to think about it than anyone else.”

Hermione nodded. “Five points to Hufflepuff for exemplary fair play, then. Mr Aitkins. I really wasn’t kidding about the Restricted Section. I spent a long time in the Hospital Wing after messing about with something I found in there, when I was a student. If your curiosity becomes overwhelming, I want you to promise that you come to _me_. I can judge, far better than you can, what’s safe for you to read, and safe for you to know.”

His forehead wrinkled. “Safe for me to know? How can it be unsafe to know something?”

“Do you know the saying, ‘a little knowledge is a dangerous thing’?” Hermione asked.

He shook his head, but Maisie nodded. “It’s a Muggle saying. My aunt and uncle are Muggles.”

Hermione smiled at her. “It is. It comes from Alexander Pope. ‘A little learning is a dangerous thing; drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring: there shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, and drinking largely sobers us again’.”

Colin was still frowning. “So learning a lot is good.”

“Yes, but learning builds step on step,” Hermione said. “And if you skip the early steps and jump right to the end, it’s like trying to build a wall from the top first. So — promise me, that you’ll ask, rather than try and find your way into the Restricted Section of the Library.  There are potions, for example, which are deadly poisons if you get just one step wrong, and if you don’t know that, or know how to tell you’ve got it wrong, you could kill yourself, or a friend, when you were just trying to make sure they won a Quidditch match.” Over the two first years’ heads, Hermione could see her senior class at the door. She held up one finger to tell them to wait.  “Promise me, Colin.”

He nodded. “I promise.”

“Good. On to your next class, then.”

  _Her_ next class came in as the two young Hufflepuffs left, and they were the students she most dreaded facing. Seventh year — the same age that she and Harry and Ron had been when they’d set out on their desperate quest to find and destroy Voldemort’s Horcruxes. Many of them had been first year students under Headmaster Snape, and second year students when she herself had returned to Hogwarts to do her N.E.W.Ts.

And this was a Slytherin and Gryffindor class.

“Good morning,” she said, and was pleased that her voice came out steady and even. “This year is the most —”

One of the Slytherin students raised his hand.

 _Circe_ _’s circlet, if I’d know at the time how annoying that is …_ “Yes? Mr …” She glanced down at the list on her desk. “Selwyn.”

Marcus Selwyn rose to his feet, wand drawn, and Hermione’s hand clenched on her own wand. _Oh, Merlin, is this never over?_

He pointed it to the ceiling instead at her. “Lumos.”

Another student was standing, wand raised. “Lumos.”

Two Gryffindors, side by side. “Lumos.”

And then the whole class was on their feet, silent, glowing wand-tips raised.

Hermione swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat. “Thank you,” she said. “Now please put your wands down before I start thinking I’m at a Ministry ceremony, and open your books to page three. You have a great deal to learn before your N.E.W.Ts, and I have every intention of making sure you maintain the high pass rate in Potions that is a Hogwarts tradition.”

That class, and the ones that followed it, displayed a grasp of the subject that spoke well of Horace Slughorn’s teaching. It strengthened Hermione’s conviction that Minerva McGonagall had an ulterior motive in manoeuvring to have Hermione take his position. As she tidied up the classroom, Hermione was satisfied her classes had gone as well as could be expected, but she knew she was nowhere near the teacher Slughorn was. _Nor Professor Snape_.

 _Not that I want to be Professor Snape._ But she _would_ have liked to have his ability to spot a mis-brewed potion from across the room or seem to see, even with his back turned, a student missing a step in the process.

She sighed, and sank down on one of the student’s stools, rubbing the back of her aching neck. As nervous as she’d been before the day started, she’d had no idea just how bloody _exhausting_ teaching would be. _Not to mention trying to watch a dozen bubbling cauldrons all at once_ _…_

  _I need to find where Severus Snape is hiding_ , she told herself firmly, striding back and forth before Barnaby the Barmy. _I need to find where Severus Snape is hiding_ _…_

But when the Room let her in, the comfortable sitting room was empty.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m taking book canon on Polyjuice, in which it changes voice as well as appearance, instead of film canon.


	19. Chapter 19: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione makes a discovery

She turned in a circle. “Professor Snape?”

 _Oh, Merlin_ _’s pants, he_ can’t _have been so stupid as to go outside_ _…_

“Professor Snape?”

There was a closed door on the other side of the room, between two of the towering bookcases. Hermione frowned. _Was that there before_?

_It must lead to_ _…_

‘Professor Snape’s bedroom’ sounded bizarre, even inside her own head. Hermione snorted at her own silliness. _What, did you think he slept hanging upside down, like a bat?_ Thinking back, she realised she’d never thought about it at all, as if Snape had never existed except as a teacher and a spy, and, those duties done, had evaporated into a swirl of black smoke until called on again. Really, she’d thought of all their teachers like that: the idea of Filius Flitwick in a nightshirt, or Minerva McGonagall clipping her toenails, had never entered her head.

But, of course, they _had_ all had beds they slept in, and bathrooms to brush their teeth in, and private lives entirely separate to their existence as teachers, Severus Snape included. They’d gathered in the staffroom and talked about things that interested them, and played chequers if Flitwick was to believed. They probably read unlikely things, just because they enjoyed them — the way Hermione read the novels of Elizabeth Gaskell and Harry and Ron went to every film with a superhero in it, and then spent hours arguing over whether Superman’s powers were a Muggle interpretation of magic or not.

Professor Snape no doubt had his own taste in literature, and perhaps other hobbies as well, although Hermione couldn’t imagine them. _Knitting seems extremely unlikely._  

Although if he’d found teaching as exhausting as she had found it today, he’d probably retired to his private rooms and been content to slump in front of the fire and stare blankly at the flames.

At least the existence of other rooms — _and I should have realised there would be, if Snape asked the Room to give him somewhere to hide indefinitely_ — meant that Snape hadn’t necessarily gone outside. _He_ _’s probably just sleeping. He’s been here for a week, after all, with no natural light. His circadian rhythm is probably completely messed up._

Still, she had to be sure, because if Snape was wandering around, she had to go straight to Harry and … _either tell him I want to borrow the map so he doesn_ _’t get a chance to spot Snape on it, or else ask to look at it with him and hope he_ does _spot Snape on it._

After all, she’d promised she wouldn’t _tell_ anyone.

She crossed to the door and knocked. “Professor Snape?” No answer, and she knocked more loudly. “Professor Snape?”

“Go away.” Coming through the door, his voice was muffled.

Not sure if she was relieved or disappointed he was still safely hidden, Hermione raised her voice a little. “Professor Snape, I wanted to ask you —”

The door flew open so suddenly that she took an involuntary step back. Snape stood with one hand on the door frame and the other gripping the edge of the door as if preparing to slam it closed again. “Did you not hear me?” he said with icy disdain. “I don’t want to listen to you wittering on about your well-founded doubts and fears about your teaching at present, Granger. Go. Away.”

Hermione drew herself up. “Actually, my classes today went very well, thank you.”

“Fascinating,” he sneered. “Now you’ve mastered teaching, try working on your comprehension of the English language. The words ‘go away’ are generally taken as an instruction to _leave_. To get — ” His hand slipped on the door-frame and he lurched sideways, shoulder hitting the jamb. “ _Out_.”

Hermione looked at his drawn face and realised Snape hadn’t been getting ready to slam the door in her face. _He was holding himself on his feet._ With a flick of her wand, she drew the nearest chair from the fireside to the doorway. “You need to sit down.”

“I _need_ whatever Potter left of my privacy respected,” Snape hissed, but he grabbed the back of the chair, bracing himself with a white-knuckled grip.

“Professor — if you’re ill —”

“Granger.” He spoke between gritted teeth. “Take your buck-toothed, bushy-haired, busy-body self _out_ —” His knees buckled and he caught himself across the back of the chair.

“Sir!” Hermione cried, reaching for him.

Snape flinched back from her, raising his head, his dark eyes looking past her at something in the distance. “I — made the — right — choice,” he gasped, and then his eyes rolled up and he went limp.

 “Mobilicorpus!” Hermione snapped instinctively, and caught him before he hit the ground. Thinking better of the chair, she moved around it, raising Snape a little higher from the floor and floating him before her as she stepped into his bedroom.

She spared once quick glance around the room, getting a general impression of thick rugs over a wooden floor and more bookcases, before spotting a huge and comfortable-looking bed. Carefully, she manoeuvred Snape over to it and lowered him down as gently as she could.

He lay so still, and his already-pale face was so white, that Hermione felt for the pulse at his wrist with real fear that she wouldn’t find one. _Take them_ _… look at me …_

 _Shut up!_ she screamed at her memory, and let out a breath that was almost a sob when she felt the faint beat of life beneath her fingertips. “Professor Snape? Can you hear me?” She took his hand in both hers. _Merlin, his skin is cold._ “Professor?”

_He needs Poppy Pomfrey._

He _needed_ to be in the Hospital Wing, but Hermione wouldn’t give a clipped knut for her chances of levitating him through the corridors unseen. Sending a Patronus to tell Madam Pomfrey she was needed wasn’t exactly discreet, either. She could just imagine her little otter sitting up on hind legs in the middle of a crowd of students and blurting out that she was needed in the place Severus Snape is hiding …

“Tilney! Tilney, I need you!”

No whip-crack of apparition. _The Room must defeat even a house elf_ _’s magic._

She could go and get Madam Pomfrey herself, but what if Snape woke up while she was gone? _In the mood he_ _’s in, he might tell the Room not to let me back in._

She closed her eyes and concentrated. _Room of Requirement, I need_ _… things to help Professor Snape. Whatever that might be._

When she opened her eyes, there was a small table beside the bed. A basin of water and a cloth were on top of it, along with several vials.

They were probably safe, given the Room’s properties, but Hermione was still reluctant to tip unknown potions into an unconscious man. She dipped the cloth in the warm water, wrung it out, and sat on the edge of the bed to wipe Snape’s face. “Can you hear me, Professor? The Room has brought me potions for you, but I don’t want to give them to you without knowing what’s wrong with you.” Relaxed in unconsciousness, Snape looked both sicker and younger than when he’d been looming over her, dark eyes glittering with fury. _But then, he isn_ _’t all that old, is he? The same age as Harry’s mum would be._ Funny to think that, when for all her school years he’d been just the same indeterminate eternal age as all the Professors had seemed to be. _If I_ _’d been told, at eleven, that Professor Snape and Professor Dumbledore were the same age, I wouldn’t have found it at all unbelievable._

She moistened the cloth again. “I don’t know why you didn’t just stay in bed and tell me to fetch Madam Pomfrey. That would have been the sensible thing to do. Instead of collapsing all over the place.” _I need whatever Potter left of my privacy respected_ , he’d said. “I suppose you didn’t want me to know, did you? I probably wouldn’t want _you_ to know if I was sick. I’d like to think I wouldn’t be this silly about it, though. What if I hadn’t caught you in time? You could have hit your head.” Brushing his cheek with the back of her fingers, Hermione was relieved to find a little warmth. “That’s better. Can you try and wake up for me, Professor Snape? Please?”

His eyes opened slightly. “Will it shut you up?”

Hermione smiled with relief. “There are some potions here. The Room brought them. I suppose potions aren’t included in the exceptions to Gamp’s Law —”

“So the answer is ‘no’,” Snape said wearily. He raised himself on his elbow, and from the tightening of his mouth, Hermione guessed the movement hurt him.

“Let me,” she said quickly, and Summoned the vials to her hand. She held them out. “Here.”

Snape took them, the potions shivering in their bottles with the tremor in his fingers. “Your curiosity about Gamp’s Law and its exceptions must remain unslaked. The Room has merely relocated these from my workroom.” Slumping back to the bed, he took all three, one after another, grimacing ferociously at the taste of the last one. After a moment, a little colour came back to his face. “There, Granger. Your mission of mercy is now complete. You will find the door behind you.”

Hermione didn’t move. “I’m not leaving until you promise me you won’t make yourself unfindable when I come back with Madam Pomfrey.”

Snape sighed. “There’s no need and less profit in troubling Poppy. Anything she can do for me, she has.”

Hermione frowned. “But you’re not better? What about St Mungo’s?”

“I cannot avail myself of St Mungo’s, for _obvious_ reasons.”

“That’s not very Slytherin of you,” Hermione said robustly. “Aren’t you all supposed to have a well-developed streak of self-preservation?”

He flinched. “You’ve found me out,” he said harshly. “I’m a very poor Slytherin.”

“Or you already think they can’t help you at St Mungo’s,” Hermione guessed. Snape shot a sharp glance at her, and she knew she was right. “There have been medical advances over the past few years, you know. New healing potions and salves …”

“I _do_ know, Granger, and rather more than you, I know what they _are_.” He scowled at her. “There must be something I can say that will persuade you to leave. Me. _Alone_.”

“Yes,” she said promptly. “You can tell me what’s wrong with you, and I’ll go.” _To the Library, to find out how I can help_.

“You are the most infuriatingly inquisitive individual it has ever been my misfortune to encounter,” Snape spat at her.

“And you are the most foul-tempered, disagreeable and downright _rude_ person I’ve ever met,” Hermione snapped. “But I don’t care how much you insult me, I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on.”

“Fine,” he said. Pulling up his left sleeve, he turned his arm over to show her —

Hermione couldn’t bite back a gasp of horror. Above his wrist, where the Dark Mark had once been, was an oval of skin that was grey and withered.  It looked not only unhealthy but repulsively _wrong_ in the way Dark magical object felt _wrong._

The way Dumbledore’s withered hand had looked, in the last year of his life.  

Hermione reached out for Snape’s wrist, wanting a closer look. He pulled his arm away before she could touch him and yanked his sleeve back down. “Satisfied? Ready to _leave_?”

“It’s a curse. Someone’s cursed you.”

“Five points to Gryffindor, less the three hundred you’ve lost your house already this evening for being an interfering busybody.”

“Was it an object, like the necklace that got Katie Bell?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yes, someone anonymously owled me a mysterious object precisely the size of a Dark Mark, and I, of course, thought it would be an excellent idea to press it against my skin.”

It was an absurd mental image, and Hermione couldn’t help but smile. “Of course not, but it could have been a watch or something.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Well, then, the curse has been placed on _you_.”

“Obviously,” he drawled contemptuously.

“And since it wasn’t the Headmistress, or Madam Pomfrey — or _me_ — then someone else knows you’re alive.”

“Odd as it may sound, I had worked that out.” He raised his arm a little, although the curse was now hidden. “As _fascinating_ as it is to hear your, and I use the term loosely, _thought processes_ , allow me to abbreviate this … _invigorating_ … discussion. The curse has been placed on my Dark Mark. Since, I assure you, no-one has had the opportunity to do so _personally_ , the only possible conclusion is that it was placed from another Dark Mark.”

Hermione blinked at him. “By another Death Eater.”

He gave a minute nod.  “Or someone who has access to one.”

“But all the Death Eaters are in Azkaban.”

“I’m not,” Snape pointed out.

“All the _real_ Death Eaters —”

“Lucius Malfoy isn’t. Nor his wife. Nor his son.”

“The Malfoys were as glad to be shot of Voldemort as anyone, by the end,” Hermione said. “They wouldn’t be trying to get _revenge_. Someone must be using them — which means they’ll know who it could be — which means we can find out, and make them lift the curse.”

“It isn’t being done by means of the Malfoy’s marks,” Snape said wearily. “That was my first thought, and Minerva’s. I mention them only as examples of the Ministry’s lack of thoroughness.”

“But —” Hermione stopped as a chilling thought struck her. “Professor, I thought the Marks only answered Voldemort. For him to call people, or for them to summon him. If someone is reaching Dark Mark to Dark Mark — does that mean he’s …. he’s _back_?”


	20. Chapter 20: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione tries to solve a problem

 

“But —” Hermione stopped as a chilling thought struck her. “Professor, I thought the Marks only answered Voldemort. For him to call people, or for them to summon him. If someone is reaching Dark Mark to Dark Mark — does that mean … Is it _him_? Is he  … is he _back_?”

Her voice shook as she said it, and she was certain that Snape would mock her for it.

To her surprise, though, he spoke without even a hint of sarcasm. “He is not back, Professor Granger. He is dead, and forever gone.” He paused, and then went on with uncharacteristic hesitation, “I would say he cannot hurt you any more, but memories do retain a … certain power. No, I believe that someone else has managed to find a way to activate the lingering traces of the Mark to their own ends.”

“To kill you,” Hermione said, because that greying patch of flesh resembled nothing so much as the killing curse that had struck Dumbledore.

“Yes.” Snape rubbed at the place where the curse was, and Hermione didn’t think he was aware of the gesture. “I thought at first perhaps it was more general, that someone … less _forgiving_ felt that the Ministry wasn’t dealing with the surviving Death Eaters harshly enough.”

Hermione nodded. “And was killing them off, and you got included accidentally.”

“Exactly. However. Minerva visited Azkaban under the pretence of concern for the rehabilitation of some former students, and none were cursed.”  

“I saw Draco just a few weeks ago, and he didn’t seem at all unwell,” Hermione said.

“Good to know,” Snape said quietly. “So, is your curiosity finally satisfied? Can you finally leave me in peace?”

“How long?” she asked quietly.

“I can contain it, for now,” he said. “Perhaps a year. I have not yet abandoned hope that it will be long enough to transform you into a competent teacher.”

“Are you in much pain?”

“Only intermittently.” Snape gave her a sharp look, and the acid was back in his tone as he said, “And these period of inconvenient weakness are also intermittent, so kindly put out of your mind any youthful fantasies of playing Florence Nightingale.”

Hermione felt herself blush. _Well, he_ did _wake up to find you mopping his unfevered brow_ _…_ “I promise I won’t try and nurse you, if you promise not to be so stupid as to get out of bed when you’re barely able to stand,” she said tartly.

“A bargain I will cheerfully make.”  

“Good.” Hermione stood up. “Then I’ll leave you to get your rest.”

She was almost at the door when his quiet voice stopped her. “What was it you wanted to ask me?”

Hermione frowned, and turned to look at him. “What do you mean?”

He gave a flick of his fingers in her direction. “Before. When you were hammering on the door of my bedroom. You wanted to ask me something.”

“Oh.” It felt like hours ago. “It’s nothing, really — I just wondered — today was so exhausting. When does it get easier?”

“Never,” he said, and the corner of his mouth turned up. “But do enjoy this first week, Professor Granger. It’s the best of the term.” He raised an eyebrow. “You see, from next Monday, you’ll have homework to mark, once your classes are over.”

“Oh, Merlin’s _pants_ ,” Hermione said with feeling.

Snape made a sound that it took Hermione a moment to realise was a laugh. “And your first year class? The Polyjuice demonstration?”

“Went really well, I think. The student played her part terrifically, and the rest were quite enthusiastic about brewing the Boil Cure afterwards. I think knowing they are working towards something as spectacular as Polyjuice potion inspired them.”

“Melted cauldrons?”

“None,” Hermione said a little smugly, keeping to herself the fact that she’d had to almost sprint across the classroom to keep one of the Hufflepuffs from making the exact same mistake Neville had in their very first class.

He raised an eyebrow, as if he’d read her mind. “Impressive.”

“So you were wrong,” Hermione couldn’t resist saying. “It wasn’t _ambitious_ , after all.”

“How very Gryffindor of you, Granger,” Snape said, sounding bored. “To think there’s anything wrong with ambition.” He flicked his fingers in a shooing motion. “Good _night_.”

“Good night, Professor,” she said, and left, closing the door gently behind her.

Pausing only to return the armchair to its proper place, Hermione left the Room of Requirement and went straight to the Library.

There were still students there — mostly from the older years, although Hermione saw Colin Aitkins and Maisie Wilkins sitting with another Hufflepuff and a Ravenclaw from the same year. She saw their heads swivel as she passed them and she was almost certain she heard a gasp when she stepped past the sign, over the rope, and into the Restricted section.

 _Well, Mr Aitkins, let_ _’s give you a preview of what you’re hankering for, shall we_? Hermione scanned the shelves until she spotted a book that would serve her purpose. It was thick and black and covered in nasty-looking stains, and chained firmly shut.

Hermione set it down on the nearest reading desk, took a firm grip on her wand, and unfastened the chains.

The book promptly levitated five feet into the air, flew open, and emitted a bloodcurdling scream that echoed through the entire library.

“ _Silencio_!” Hermione snapped, and the shriek stopped abruptly. “And _Accio_ yourself back down here this instant.” The book fell into her waiting hand. “Thank you.”

She turned a little, until out of the corner of her eye she could see Colin’s wide-eyed face looking around the end of a row of shelves at her. Madam Pince was glaring at her, and Hermione gave her a sunny smile as she locked the book shut again and put it back.

_Right. What am I looking for? Dark Marks_ _… protean charms in general, I suppose … and killing curses._

_Lovely bedtime reading, this will be._

Hermione had a stack of books in front of her and was deep in a profoundly unpleasant description of a nineteenth-century wasting curse when a cheerful “Hello, Professor Granger,” made her start.

She looked up to see Harry grinning down at her. She smiled back. “Hello, Professor Potter. However did you know where to find me?”

“Apart from knowing what you’re like?” He showed her the corner of the Marauder’s Map, tucked under his robes. “Because I was up to no good, of course.” He leaned down to read over her shoulder. “That’s a nasty one.”

Hermione’s smile faded. “Yes.” She closed the book. “Harry, does Auror training teach you to break curses like that?”

He nodded as he pulled out a chair and sat down beside her. “Or at least, how to go about it. It’s more of an art than an exact science, especially if someone’s combined the curses.”

“So if someone had been cursed, with something like this or at least, something similar, you’d be able to help them?”

Harry shrugged. “Maybe. I’d probably have to call in a specialist, if it was really tricky. There are only a few really top curse-breakers, and they mostly work independently. They absolutely coin it in, although thankfully there’s less call for their particular services these days.”

“Now all the Death Eaters are in Azkaban?” Hermione asked, and Harry nodded. “And they _are_ all in Azkaban, aren’t they? Except for the Malfoys?”

“Azkaban or dead,” Harry said. He put his hand over hers. “What’s this about, Hermione?”

“Not me,” she said quickly. “I’m not cursed, or anything.”

“I know, you’re not stupid enough to keep it to yourself,” Harry said. “Were you looking for the rest of us, earlier?”

Hermione frowned. “Earlier?”

“I saw you coming out of the Room of Requirement.”

“Oh! No, I —” She stopped. _I promised Professor Snape I wouldn_ _’t tell anyone._ And then she’d acted as if that promise meant she should help him hide, at least a little … _but that was before I knew._

_That he_ _’s dying._

“Harry, you know I made a promise, right?”

He nodded. “Ron told me. And that it wasn’t hurting you.” He studied her carefully. “It _isn_ _’t_ hurting you, is it? Because you look …”

“It’s not hurting me,” she assured him. “And if I break it, I’m afraid that the person I made it to will stop trusting me. I mean, even the little that he does trust me now. And now …” Hermione bit her lip. “Now I’ve learnt something that makes me _want_ to break my promise but I think it makes it even more important not to lose his trust. If that makes sense?”

Harry nodded. “Clear as mud.”

Hermione’s eyes filled with tears. “Harry, I’m _trying_!”

“Hey, hey, Hermione.” Harry put his arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I should know better than to needle you when you’ve spent hours up here with _this_ lot. Come on. Let’s get away from this stack of mouldy old malice and have a proper talk.”

Hermione _did_ feel better almost immediately, once they’d left the Library. “I shouldn’t have spent so long with those books,” she said.

“It gets to you,” Harry agreed. “Cast a Patronus every now and again, if you’re going to spend much time with them. Now, where shall we go? Room, again?”

Hermione shook her head. “No. I want some hot chocolate.”

Harry grinned. “I know — your office, _Professor_ Granger. And we can deduct points from any Slytherin we find wandering around the halls down there.”

“Harry!” Hermione protested as he led the way to the stairs. “What was all that earlier about not carrying on old grudges, then?”

“I’m not!” He jumped the trick step. “But I’ve just taken ten points off a couple of Gryffindors I found snogging behind the statue of — who _is_ that odd-looking chap in the third floor corridor? With the tree growing out of his head?”

“Hambledore the Barking, and that’s his hat, apparently,” Hermione said. “According to _Hogwarts: A History_ he was —”

“Barking mad?”

“The first wizard to codify the process by which a witch or wizard could become an Animagus,” Hermione said a bit waspishly as they turned the corner.

“Oh. Bully for him, then.” They reached the last staircase to the dungeons. “Remember how Professor Snape used to manage to just appear, down here? Directly behind us, at the worst possible moment?”

“He definitely had a talent for appearing unexpectedly,” Hermione said. _One which he has apparently not lost._ She had to suppress a smile. There was a scurrying sound from the direction of the Slytherin common room, and she cocked her head, then raised her voice. “Students out of bed after lights-out earn their House an immediate _fifty_ point deduction.”

The scurrying froze into immobility.

“Hypocrite,” Harry whispered to her.

“No, a traditionalist,” Hermione retorted. She put her hand on her office door and it opened. “Here we are.”

Harry followed her in, and looked around at the heavy desk in wood so dark it was almost black, the shelves of mysterious ingredients, and the incongruous chintz armchairs. “I love what you’ve done with the place.”

Hermione snorted. “I haven’t done anything with the place, which I suspect is your rather heavy-handed point. I haven’t had time. Anyway, the Potions Professor’s office shouldn’t be _cosy_.” Not to mention, _because I can_ _’t_ , that it felt wrong to change Professor Snape’s office without the permission of the man himself. “Tilney?”

The house elf appeared, and on Hermione’s request, promptly fetched them steaming mugs of hot chocolate and, Hermione was pleased to see, a plate of biscuits she hadn’t asked for. _Tilney is starting to like me._ Once the house elf had vanished again, Hermione cast a quick _Muffliato_ and shot the bolt on the door.

Harry picked up his mug and took a sip. “Now. You’re having second thoughts about this promise, but you still want to keep your word.”

Hermione nodded. “If I’d known _everything,_ I wouldn’t have made it. But if I break it now …”

He nodded. “Minerva’s in the same boat, I expect.”

“I think I can tell you …” Hermione bit her lip. “It isn’t Professor Flitwick.”

“I know _that_ ,” Harry said. “Ginny told me it wasn’t as soon as she’d talked to you. Would it be cheating for me to just ask you about each of the teachers in turn? I suppose it would.” He paused. “Honestly, Hermione. You could have found time to brighten the place up with a throw-rug or something. I feel as if Professor Snape’s just stepped out and is due back any moment.”

Hermione looked around. “So do I.” _With rather more reason than you know._

“So this person — _man,_ because you said _he_ — you’ve made a promise to, he’s been cursed, and you think a Death Eater did it.” Hermione blinked at him, and Harry gave a slightly smug smile. “Your reading list, and your questions, gave it away. Well, if it’s a Death Eater, it’s got to be one of the Malfoys. They’re the only ones still at large.”

Hermione kicked off her shoes, and curled her feet under her. “Can you be completely sure? I mean, what if there was someone who kept it secret, and never got caught? Or … someone people thought was dead?” _That_ would be an irony: the supposedly dead Severus Snape cursed by _another_ supposedly-dead Death Eater.

 “We verified all the dead by their magical signatures,” Harry said. “I suppose I should say _they_ verified all the dead, it was before I even started my training. But one way or another, all the names are ticked off. As for secret … they’d have to be _very_ secret. The Ministry’s Legilimens have been through every single relevant memory of all the ones we caught, and all the ones _they_ couldn’t help but give up.” He picked up a biscuit, inspected it, and ate it in two neat bites. “These are excellent. So it’s the Malfoys. I know you say Draco’s changed, but Lucius …?”

Hermione shook her head. “Someone who … would know told me it isn’t the Malfoys.”

“Yes, but who _really_ knows Lucius Malfoy these —” He stopped, looking at her. “Hermione. I’m suddenly having a completely mad idea.”

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading this far! I’d love to know what you think, so if you haven’t, please leave a comment!


	21. Chapter 21: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry puts two and two together

Hermione clutched her nearly empty mug. “What? What completely mad idea?”

Harry shook his head slightly, as if to settle his brain in his skull. “Someone who knows Lucius Malfoy. Honestly, I don’t think Lucius has been close to one person who wasn’t a blood relation or a Death Eater.”

Hermione bit her lip. “I suppose.”

“Hermione.” Harry put his mug down and leaned forward. “You asked me about Death Eaters people thought were dead, but aren’t. You’ve been talking to someone who knows Lucius Malfoy well enough to be confident he’s not the source of malice. And someone inside Hogwarts in trouble — has been _cursed_ , given what you were looking up — and it’s someone who’s extracted a promise from both you and Minerva McGonagall to keep quiet about him.” He paused, and then said very quietly, “Hermione.”

“I promised that I wouldn’t tell you!” she cried.

“If I use Legilimens, you won’t be _telling_ me, would you?” Harry paused. “Would your promise make you feel you had to fight me?”

“I’m not sure,” Hermione admitted. “But — I think I might, anyway. I _hated_ the final year D.A.D.A classes where we had to try and learn Occlumency.”

Harry gave a wry smile. “I didn’t much enjoy learning it, either. But Hermione — not just as your friend, but as the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor of Hogwarts, and as an Auror — if I suspect someone at this school is suffering a Dark curse, I _have_ to find out. You understand? It’s actually, technically, my job and my duty.”

Hermione braced herself. “I know.”

“I hate to think of hurting you, though,” Harry said quietly. “So let’s try one more thing. Hermione — is it Draco Malfoy who’s in trouble?”

“No,” Hermione said. “At least, not that I know. I haven’t seen him for a few weeks, though.”

Just as quietly, Harry said, “So if it isn’t Draco — Hermione, is it Professor Snape?”

“He —” Hermione didn’t have to decide whether confirming Harry’s speculation would count as _telling_ him, or not, because Harry took one look at her face and erupted to his feet.

“Merlin’s bloody buggering bollocks, Hermione!” Pulling out the Marauder’s Map, he rapped it with his wand. “I solemnly swear I am up to no good. Do you know how often I’ve wished he was still alive? The things I’ve wished I had the chance to tell him, to _ask_ him?”

Hermione bit her lip. “Harry …”

“How long have you known?” he asked, studying the map. “I mean, I know it can’t be long, because you’re the worst liar I’ve ever known.”

“Just since I got back here, a week ago, that’s all,” she said hastily. “He just … turned up in my classroom. I didn’t believe it could be him, at first, but it was.”

“No wonder you were so quick off the mark about Minerva having ulterior motives. Severus Snape, Severus Snape …”

“You won’t see him on there,” Hermione said.

Harry looked up from the map, green eyes shrewd behind his glasses. “You hid him in the Room of Requirement,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. “ _That_ _’s_ why I spotted you coming out from there tonight. Playing both ends of the Quidditch pitch, Hermione?”

“I wasn’t going to tell him,” Hermione said, unable to meet that steady gaze for long. She stared at the unlit fire, instead. “About the Room. Just about the Map, so he wouldn’t be surprised when you found him. But he asked for my help — the only kind of help he’d let me give him.”

“Alright,” Harry said after a moment. He put his hand on her shoulder. “No harm done, in the long run, anyway. I blame _him_ , for putting you in that position.” With a final squeeze, he let go of her shoulder and tapped the map again. “Mischief managed. Come on, let’s go.”

“To the Room?” Hermione asked, and when Harry nodded, she shook her head. “Not tonight, Harry.”

He looked at his watch. “It’s not that late. You don’t expect me to just go to bed and go quietly to sleep when I know that Severus Snape is alive and just upstairs, do you?”

“No, but …” Hermione bit her lip. “Look, like you’ve already guessed. Someone’s cursed him. And it’s … it’s bad, tonight. He doesn’t want to see you anyway, Harry, how do you think he’ll take you hammering on his door when he’s … ill?”

Harry frowned, and for a moment Hermione was going to ignore her and go charging up to the Room of Requirement anyway, in a replay of so many moments from their school days. Then, to her relief, he sighed, and flopped back down into the chair opposite hers. “You’re probably right. How bad is it? The curse?”

“Remember Dumbledore’s hand?” Hermione said, and he gave a shudder. “It looks like that, but here.” She traced the place on her own left arm. “Right where the Dark Mark was.”

Harry frowned. “Cursed through the Mark?”

“It _is_ a Protean charm,” Hermione said. “I was reading about their history again tonight, and Voldemort by no means invented them.” 

“He put his own special spin on them, though,” Harry said wryly.

 “Did he, though?” Hermione asked. “You knew him better than anyone, Harry. Except Professor Snape, maybe. He was powerful, and he was horrible, but how _inventive_ was he?”

Harry gazed into space, expression thoughtful. “Not all that inventive, when you get down to it. I mean, he took things further than anyone else would have dared — seven Horcruxes, after all. Somewhat excessive. But apart from the flying … I can’t think of a single spell he cast that wasn’t something he could have learnt in the Library here.” He frowned. “And you know, Professor Snape could do that as well, the flying. Maybe it was _his_ spell, and he taught Tom Riddle. I mean, we _know_ that Professor Snape was coming up with his own spells, and improving potions, even when he was a teenager.” He looked back at Hermione. “Why does it matter?”

“We always talked about the Dark Marks as a way for Voldemort to signal to his followers, or them to signal to him,” Hermione said. “But a Protean charm doesn’t necessarily work that way. Look at the D.A. galleons — Neville and the others were using them to organise the resistance, and I didn’t know, or need to know, anything about it. And it was _my_ charm.”

“That last day — Alecto Carrow used her Mark to tell Riddle she’d caught me,” Harry said thoughtfully. “And Amycus came running in response. And Professor Snape.” He paused. “Who was running to save me from them, I suppose, although I didn’t know it at the time.”

“So the Dark Marks worked like an ordinary Protean charm,” Hermione said. “Change one, change all.”

“Yes, but, Riddle’s dead, and so is his magic.” Harry touched his scar. “And he _is_ dead, Hermione. Believe me, I’d know if he wasn’t.”

“Then there must be something different about the Dark Marks.” Hermione bit her lip. “Maybe because they’re Dark. Something _residual._ ”

“They left a scar,” Harry said. “Did you find anything about that, in the Library?”

Hermione shook her head. “No. Other Protean charms either just stopped working — like parchments charmed to pass messages. But I haven’t found anything else about someone putting a Protean charm on a tattoo, or a brand, magically-induced or otherwise.” She picked at her thumbnail, thinking. “Harry — have you got any tattoos?”

“No! Why, do you?”

She shook her head, smiling. “No, but I went with Ginny when she had hers done — the Holyhead Harpies one. The point is, they bleed, when they’re done, even when they’re done magically. And there’s magic in blood. “

“That’s why I could come back, when Riddle killed me,” Harry said. “Because my mother’s magic was in my blood, which he’d taken.”

“Right,” Hermione said. “So when the Dark Marks were made … what if the witch or wizard’s own magic was part of it, not just Voldemort's? The magic in their blood.”

“Which is why there’s still a trace of them, a scar!” Harry said. “Hermione, you’re brilliant! That’s it! Someone’s worked out how to activate the remnants of the Protean charm in their Dark Mark scar!”

“Yes, but who?” Hermione said. “You said they’re all dead, or in prison, or Malfoys.”

“I’ll Floo back to the Ministry first thing,” Harry said.

“And tell them what? That Severus Snape is alive? He won’t thank you,” Hermione warned. “He won’t thank you for knowing _yourself_. Telling Kingsley …” She shook her head. “I don’t think he’d forgive it.”

“I won’t tell Kingsley anything,” Harry said. “I’ll tell him I’ve heard a rumour that there’s a Death Eater unaccounted for, that’s all. An anonymous tip, and I don’t know if it’s someone from the First Wizarding War who fled overseas and never came back, or someone who escaped us somehow, or whatever else.” He grinned. “He won’t ask why the tip came to the Boy Who Lived, you know, he’ll just start an investigation.”

“ _You_ _’re_ more comfortable with celebrity than you used to be,” Hermione observed.

He grinned. “I’m dating the best Chaser the Holyhead Harpies have had for fifty years, I don’t have much choice about it, do I?”

Hermione smiled back. She drew up her feet and hugged her knees. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’m only ever a Floo away, you dimwit,” Harry said.

She nodded. “I know. But, you know, we all got so busy, and then with my parents …”

He leaned forward and touched her foot gently. “Things still rough there?”

Hermione made herself smile. “No. A lot better, actually. But I don’t think it’ll ever be the same. My therapist says that I have to learn to understand the difference between the normal changes that happen when we grow up and the ones from … what I did.”

“You mean saving their lives?” Harry asked. “Maybe they’re the ones who should be in therapy, have you thought of that?”

“Yes,” Hermione admitted. “And then I feel … disloyal.”

Harry patted her foot and leaned back. “Sounds to me that _that_ _’s_ what you should be working on.”

Hermione shrugged. “Do you still have the nightmares?” she asked abruptly.

“Sometimes,” he admitted softly. “It never happens … the way it really happened, in my dreams. Something goes wrong. I lose the Stone, and I can’t find it, and I can’t go on and face Riddle without it. Or I drop the vial with Professor Snape’s memories on the way to the Pensieve, and I’m trying to carry them in my hands, and they keep spilling away. Stuff like that.” He studied her. “You?”

“Sometimes,” she echoed. “Always the same. Professor Snape. And in the dream, I know all the things we found out, that you told us — but I still don’t help him, I just stand there and watch him die.”

“You couldn’t have saved him, Hermione,” Harry said. “St Mungo’s barely saved Arthur Weasley. You were an eighteen-year-old with first aid knowledge and a bottle of dittany.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But I didn’t even try. He should have had someone _try_.” 

Harry snorted. “And it turns out he did, didn’t he? Do you know how he _did_ survive?”

“Fawkes,” Hermione said succinctly.

“Of course.” Harry smiled. “Good old Professor Dumbledore. He always had a loophole of some sort ready.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to get back, I’m on first watch tonight.” Standing, he held out his hand. “Come on, I’ll walk you back to your rooms.”

Hermione let him pull her to her feet, frowning. “I can walk across Hogwarts without an escort, Harry.”

“If someone’s playing around with Dark curses, we _all_ need to be careful,” Harry said seriously.

“ _Including_ you,” Hermione pointed out.

Harry patted his robe. “Ah, but I’ll be under the Cloak on the way back.”

Hermione cancelled her spell, and unlocked the door. “What about the others?”

“Professor Sprout built a … sort of a granny flat, really, out by her place next to the greenhouses for Neville,” Harry said. “It makes it more convenient to get up in the middle of the night when the mandrakes are teething, I suppose. I think he’s safe enough with Pomona Sprout in shouting distance.” He stuck his head out the door and looked up and down the corridor, and Hermione realised he had his wand at the ready. “Coast is clear, come on.”

Hermione followed him towards the stairs. “And Ginny and Luna? Are you manly men going to stand guard over all of us?”

He gave a comically exaggerated grimace. “As much as it’s going to pain me, I’m going to suggest Ginny and Luna share digs. That leaves just you without a room-mate, and if you could take care of me and Ron for all those months five years ago, I think you can take care of yourself. Add extra wards to your door, though, and don’t wander around at night by yourself.”  

  “Don’t wander around at night alone?” Hermione said. She widened her eyes. “Who are you, and what have you done with Harry Potter?”

Harry grinned at her. “I didn’t say not to wander around at night _at all_ ,” he said. “Just exercise a bit of caution, and take company.”

“And I say again …” Hermione said dryly.

They reached her door, and Harry stopped her with a hand on her arm before she could open it. “Hermione … I’m going to have to tell the others. Not Kingsley, but the rest of _us_.”

Hermione nodded. “I know. But … talk to … _him_ first. And maybe to Minerva?”

He nodded, took out the Invisibility Cloak, slung it about his shoulders, and disappeared. “Night, Hermione.”

“Night.”

She heard his footsteps fading away, and turned back to her door. About to open it, she stopped. Had she heard …?

The sound came again and Hermione spun on her heel, whipping out her wand in one smooth movement. “ _Homenum Revelio_!”

 

 


	22. Chapter 22: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione encounters a wrong-doer … and his friends.

The spell shot out from her wand and found its target. _Students_.

Hermione’s pulse began to slow. _Of course it_ _’s students. You’re letting Harry’s Auror paranoia get to you._ She strode forward, reached around the corner, and seized a narrow shoulder.

“Mr Aitkins,” she said, dragging him out. Raising her voice a little, she went on, “And the rest of you, come on out.”

Two more diminutive figures crept out of various hiding places. Hermione recognised Maisie Wilkins, and the Ravenclaw boy who’d been with Colin and Maisie in the Library.

Hermione was careful not to point her wand directly at any of the children, but she was also careful to hold it where they couldn’t avoid seeing it. _Now, how to handle this? Minerva_ _’s sternness? Professor Snape’s sarcasm?_

Trying to choose between _What is the meaning of this?_ and _I wait with bated breath to hear your no-doubt_ excellent _reason for such flagrant disregard of school rules_ , Hermione settled on, “Well?”

_Oh, good work._ _“Well?” That’s memorable, that is, that will make sure they remember and respect the rules in future._

“Professor,” Colin said tremulously. “I’m sorry. You see, it’s my fault —”

“It isn’t,” the Ravenclaw boy said. He looked on the verge of tears. “It’s my fault. They were trying to help me.”

Hermione had used her best memory techniques to learn the names of her students, but it still took her a moment to bring the boy’s name into focus. _Rowland. Michael Rowland._ “Why is it your fault, Mr Rowland?”

“I can’t get in!” he wailed, and did start crying. “I’m not a proper Ravenclaw! I can’t get i-i-in to the Common Room!”

“Don’t be silly,” Maisie said robustly. “It’s a beastly hard riddle, that doesn’t mean you’re not a Ravenclaw.”

“Why didn’t you go to Professor Flitwick?” Hermione asked. “That’s what you should have done, not got your friends in trouble along with you.”

“I-I-I’m _sorry!_ ” he sobbed.

“ _Accio_ handkerchief,” Hermione said, even though it was just in her pocket and she could have easily taken it out. The thee student’s eyes widened as the square of cotton zipped into her hand. “Here. Blow your nose, you’ll feel better — no, keep it. Please.”

“Thanks,” Michael sniffled.

“Right. Now. You do realise that the rules about being out after hours aren’t just to inconvenience you, don’t you? I mean, in my second year I was ambushed by a basilisk and petrified. Do you want that to happen to you?” Three heads shook solemnly. “Quite right, it wasn’t pleasant. Not to mention that there are quite a few members of staff who wouldn’t react at all well if you should happen to startle them. All of you, come with me.”

Herding them ahead of her, Hermione headed for Professor Flitwick’s office. He opened the door almost immediately. “Yes?”

Hermione put her hand on Michael’s shoulder, and pushed him forward. “Mr Rowland has been unable to get in to the Ravenclaw common room, and consequently his dormitory.”

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Michael said, and began to leak tears again.

“Oh, dear,” Flitwick said. “What was the riddle?”

“What am I?” Michael said. “I tried _an eagle_ and _the doorkeeper_ and — and — _everything!_ ”

“Then you’d better come in,” Flitwick said, “and we’ll see if we can work it out together. Come on, come on, don’t be shy!” As Flitwick closed the door behind the boy, Hermione heard him ask, “Do you like cupcakes?”

She turned to the two Hufflepuffs. “Right. Quick march, you lot.”

“Do you know the answer to the riddle?” Colin asked as Hermione led the children down to the Hufflepuff entrance.

“Yes,” Hermione said.

“What is it?”

“Ask Michael tomorrow,” Hermione said.

“I don’t think it’s fair,” Maisie said suddenly. “He would have been stuck out there all night if you hadn’t come along.”

“He could have knocked on Professor Flitwick’s door himself,” Hermione pointed out. “Left here — not _that_ staircase, it resets in five minutes — down there. That’s it. Or he could have asked a painting to fetch one of the prefects.”

“But —” Maisie said, and stopped.

“But he didn’t want to admit he didn’t know something,” Hermione said, and the girl nodded. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of in not knowing something, Miss Wilkins. Only in refusing to learn it.”

It _was_ an important lesson, but Hermione felt a little hypocritical as she turned the two Hufflepuffs over to one of their prefects and headed back towards Ravenclaw Tower. She could all too easily imagine her own panic and shame if, Sorted into Ravenclaw, she had found herself stumped by the first night’s riddle like Michael Rowland.

She passed the entrance to the Ravenclaw common room on her way back to her own quarters. Professor Flitwick stood there looking up at a decidedly more cheerful-seeming Michael.

“You’re a question!” he declared, and the door opened to let him in.

“Excellent work, Mr Rowland. Excellent work!” Flitwick said. “Now, I shall just follow you in and have a word or two with the prefects …”

Smiling, Hermione identified herself to her own door’s guardian painting and slipped inside. Crookshanks was nowhere to be seen, and she wondered if Tilney had let him out, or Hogwarts just understood him, or if Crookshanks had ways of his own. _I_ _’ve never seen him Apparate_ , _but_ _I honestly wouldn_ _’t be surprised to learn that he could._

She kicked off her shoes, hung up her robe, and flopped down on her bed, and then raised her head and wand long enough to shoot an extra ward at the door. _Not the most uneventful start to the year a Hogwarts teacher could desire._ Hermione had the feeling Maisie Wilkins and Colin Aitkins were going to be trouble, in their different ways. _Colin because an interest in the Restricted Section on day one and a willingness to be out after hours is a combination to be watched warily._ And Maisie … polite, co-operative, well-behaved …

_And also breaking rules on her very first day._

Hermione sighed. _I have bigger things to worry about than students._ Tomorrow, Harry would set the Ministry searching for the Death Eater who had cursed, or who had been used to curse, Professor Snape. _And then if I know him at all, he_ _’ll be straight off to the Room of Requirement._

She couldn’t even begin to imagine how _that_ conversation would go. If the former Potions Professor was prickly and acerbic to _her_ , when he’d chosen to reveal himself to her of his own free will, how much worse would he be to Harry — with whom he’d always been at odds?

 _Should I warn him?_ Would Professor Snape be as good as Neville with the Room of Requirement and be able to get it to hide him from even those who knew what they were looking for?  _Because he will, if he knows how and knows Harry is on his way._

She rolled over and punched the pillow. The fact was, Harry was right. He was both the school’s Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher and an Auror and he and Ron were the best people to both find out who’d cursed Professor Snape and to find a way to break the curse. Quite apart from helping Professor Snape, if there was someone out there using this sort of curse, they had to be found and they had to be stopped — for everyone’s sake.

_And I never actually promised Professor Snape that I_ _’d warn him._

Satisfied she was doing the right thing, she fell asleep without even getting undressed.


	23. Chapter 23: Harry Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Telling Ron

 

Harry filled the basin with cold water and plunged his head into it.

He’d had a sleepless night, as he’d told Hermione he would. He hadn’t even bothered to wake Ron when the time came for them to switch between watching and sleeping, just sat, letting his senses extend outward for any trace of hostile magic while his mind churned in turmoil.

_Severus Snape, alive._

His mind teemed with questions. _Did you sign up with Voldemort the first time_ despite _his opinions of Muggle-borns like Mum, or_ because _of them? Would you have_ ever _changed sides, without her dying? Was it only ever about her? But it couldn_ _’t have been, could it, because you accepted that I’d have to die — so when did it change? How did you learn Occlumency — did you already know how to do it when you joined Voldemort? If you didn’t, how come he never realised what you really felt for Mum?_

His breath ran out, and he straightened, gasping, regarding his slightly blurry face in the mirror. _First things first._

_Let_ _’s save the man’s life._

Ron leaned through the door. “Did you forget to wake me?”

Grabbing a towel, Harry dried the water from his face and hair, and put his glasses back on. “I was never going to sleep. I thought one of us should be on the ball in class today.”

“You … you haven’t had a fight with Ginny, have you?” Ron asked nervously.

“No,” Harry reassured him. He tossed the towel back at the rack and mostly missed. “Look, Ron. Something’s happened, and I need you to keep it to yourself for now. And keep it to us, to Dumbledore’s Army, once I’ve told the others.”

Ron nodded. “’Course, if you say so.”

“It won’t be easy,” Harry warned him. “You’re going to want to tell everyone, and you _can_ _’t_.”

“Is this about Hermione’s promise?”

“It’s exactly about Hermione’s promise,” Harry said. He took a deep breath. _It sounds much madder in the bright sunlight of a September morning in the bathroom that it did in Professor Snape_ _’s office in the dead of night._ “The thing is, Ron, she made that promise to Severus Snape.”

Ron frowned. “To Snape? I think I’d remember if — she didn’t say anything, that night, not to him. And we hadn’t seen him for _months_ before then, had we?”

Harry took another deep breath, and said baldly, “She made it to Severus Snape _last week_ , Ron. He’s alive. He doesn’t want anyone to know.”

 Ron stared at him. “Oh, bloody hell,” he said at last. “It’s happened, hasn’t it?”

“What’s happened?”

“This year’s curse.” He fumbled for his wand. “Hold still, Harry. If it hasn’t been too long —”

“I’m not bloody cursed!” Harry said impatiently. “It’s _real_ , Ron. Fawkes saved his life. I found Hermione looking up curses in the Library, and she asked about Death Eaters and — I put the pieces together and when I asked her, well, you know Hermione.”

“Worst liar ever,” Ron agreed, but he was still watching Harry warily. “Come on, then, let’s have a look at the map. If he’s there, I’ll believe you.”

Harry shook his head. “He’s in the Room of Requirement.”

“Well, that’s convenient,” Ron said. His wand was in his hand now.

“Ron, stop talking to me like I’m a candidate for the Janus Thickey ward!” Harry snapped. “If I’ve lost my mind, then so has Hermione. She’s actually _seen_ him. And she’s got nothing to do with the D.A.D.A post, has she?”

“Well, no. But I’d like to hear that from her, if you don’t mind.”

“Fine,” Harry said. “I was going to Floo Kingsley before breakfast, but it can wait an hour. Let’s go and talk to Hermione.”

Ron’s eyes widened. “Good thing I woke up, then. Tell Kingsley that Professor Snape’s alive?”

“Not that he’s alive, no. But that there’s a Death Eater somewhere that we don’t know about, who’s cursed him.”

“A secret Death Eater who’s cursed Professor Snape,” Ron said slowly. “Right, that’s so much better.”

“Ron.” Harry took a deep breath. “You and me, we’ve hunted down parts of Tom Riddle’s soul hidden in magical objects. I’ve survived the killing curse, twice. We broke into Gringotts Bank, Ron! Your family rat turned out to be a Death Eater!” His voice had risen and he had to make a conscious effort to lower it. “Is this really the maddest thing you’ve heard?”

“When you put it like that …” Ron lowered his wand to his side. “It doesn’t sound any more mental than anything else, really.”

“That’s our lives, Ron, completely mental,” Harry said, and they shared a smile. “So come on, let’s find Hermione, and you can hear it from her.”

     In case there were any students up and about early, they slung their teaching robes on before they hurried down the staircase, through the D.A.D.A classroom, and headed to Ravenclaw Tower.

Hermione opened her door in her bathrobe, took one look at Ron’s face, and said to Harry, “You’ve told him, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Harry said.

She opened the door wider and stepped back. “You’d better come in.”

“He doesn’t believe me,” Harry said as Hermione closed the door behind them and cast a quick Muffliato.

“I don’t blame him.”  Hermione tightened the belt of her robe. “I didn’t believe it myself until I’d tipped a cauldron of Thief’s Downfall over his head.”

“Standing right here,” Ron said pointedly.

“Oh, I’m sorry Ron,” Hermione said, sounding distracted. “Tilney, can we have tea and toast, please?”

“So it’s true,” Ron said slowly. “What Harry said — that he’s alive — you’ve _seen_ him.”

“Yes.” The tea appeared and Hermione poured three cups.

Ron sat down suddenly, staring at her. “And it’s _really_ him?”

“Large as life and just as rude,” Hermione said.

“That’s a bit disappointing,” Ron said. “That he’s still a git. You’d hope laying down your life would have a, I dunno, a _mellowing_ effect.”

Hermione shoved a tea-cup at him hard enough to slop tea into the saucer. “That doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve our help.”

“I didn’t say it did, did I?” Ron protested. He turned to Harry. “Did I?”

Harry picked up his own tea-cup. “Staying out of it.”

“Thanks,” Ron said.

“Have you talked to Kingsley yet?” Hermione asked impatiently.

Harry shook his head. “Had to persuade Ron I wasn’t suffering from the most recent iteration of the D.A.D.A curse, first.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “That’s certainly what I would have thought, if _you_ _’d_ come to _me_ with the news, instead of the other way around.”

“Thanks very much,” Harry said. “Glad to know my two best friends’ first instinct is to assume I’ve gone loopy.” He sipped his tea. “I didn’t think for a minute that _you_ had, by the way.”

“Well, of course not.” Hermione’s tone was matter-of-fact. “But look, Ron — like I told Harry last night. Professor Snape doesn’t want people to _know_ he’s still alive. He said that Minerva and Poppy Pomfrey promised to keep it a secret, after Harry killed Voldemort, so no _loyal_ Death Eaters would try to take revenge on him, but something Minerva said …” She bit her lip. “I have the feeling it’s not just that.”

“Well, it was bad enough for _us_ , wasn’t it?” Harry said. “For that first year, I felt like I was being asked about my mum, and Professor Dumbledore, and the Order of the Phoenix, every time I turned around. I couldn’t buy a sandwich without a witch or wizard popping up in the queue and thanking me for my bravery and crying a few tears over my poor dead Mum.”  

“Imagine Snape’s face,” Ron said. “Imagine what he’d say to some stranger crying over him.”

 There was a short silence as all three tried, and failed, to picture it.

“We’ve got a reasonable chance of working out what this curse is, and how to break it,” Harry said. “And if we can, we respect his privacy, right? Keep it to ourselves — and Ginny and Luna and Neville, we might need their help.”

“And if we can’t?” Hermione asked quietly.

“If we can’t, he’s just going to have to resign himself to being a public hero,” Harry said firmly. “I’m not letting him die.”

_Not twice._

Hermione shooed them out so she could finish getting dressed, promising to represent them at breakfast in the Great Hall.

“I’ll Floo Kingsley, and tell him about your ‘anonymous tip’,” Ron said. “And take the morning classes.”

“Thanks,” Harry said.

“Basic safety measure,” Ron said. “It’s not like you’re going to be able to concentrate on anything else until you’ve seen him, is it?”

And that, Harry had to agree, was true.

Remembering the nature, and the limitations, of the Room of Requirement, he made his way down to the kitchens, where it took him a little while to persuade the house elves that he did not need to be immediately sat down and fed to bursting. “A tray,” he told them firmly. “A breakfast tray. Tea, and toast, and … I don’t know. Breakfast. Not too much, because I’ve got to carry it.”

That raised more objections, and Harry finally agreed that the tray would meet him at his destination.

Accordingly, ten minutes later, he was walking up and down the corridor, carrying a tray crammed with not just tea and toast, but bacon, eggs, sausage, kippers, a bowl of porridge, and tiny pots of every jam available. _I need to go to where Severus Snape is,_ he thought hard. _I need to go to where Severus Snape is. I need to go to where Severus Snape is_ _…_

The door appeared. Balancing the tray carefully on his knee, Harry opened it.


	24. Chapter 24: Harry Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus Snape and Harry Potter, face to face

“Are you there, Professor Snape?” Harry called as soon as the door was closed behind him. _I_ _’d prefer not to startle the former spy and superb duellist while my hands are full._ “It’s me, Harry Potter. I’ve brought you some breakfast.”

He took a cautious step forward, assessing the Room of Requirement’s current form in the way that had become second nature since his Auror training. _Thick rugs, not fixed carpets — they_ _’ll slip, mind your footing — bookshelves look to be fixed to the walls, no chance to pull them down — two chairs, heavy enough to deal a solid blow with Wingardium …_

And in one of the chairs _, one wizard, wand out, but not pointing at me._

One very familiar wizard, lank black hair, hooked nose and all, even if no longer dressed in head-to-toe black, but instead a plain white shirt and dark trousers.

Severus Snape sat, leaning back in the chair, feet outstretched toward the fireplace where a small fire flickered. He was the picture of relaxed ease, except Harry could see that the fingers holding the wand casually pointed away from Harry gripped the slender stick so tightly they were white with pressure.

 _He won_ _’t hex me_. Every professional instinct told Harry that the wizard in front of him was deadly dangerous, a heartbeat away from violence, and that his best move at this point was to drop the tray, draw his wand, and cast _Stupefy_ and _Petrificus Totalus_ in quick succession.

But he, alone of everyone still alive, had heard the mounting horror and grief in Snape’s voice as the reality of Dumbledore’s plan sank in. _So the boy_ _… the boy must die? I thought … all these years … that we were protecting him for her._

_You have kept him alive so that he can die at the right moment?_

Severus Snape might be ready to lash out at anyone who intruded on him, but he would not, _could_ not, hurt Lily Potter’s son.

“Hello, sir,” Harry said calmly. “I’ve brought you some breakfast.”

Snape’s lips curled in a sneer. “I suppose I have Granger to thank for this.”

“Not at all.” Without waiting for an invitation, Harry thought hard about the need for a table, and when one appeared by Snape’s chair he set the tray on it. “I got there by myself. With a little help from some friends, and a couple of former Headmasters.”

“Meddling fools,” Snape said sourly.

“It seems to go with the territory,” Harry said cheerfully, and took the chair opposite Snape’s. “I didn’t know what you preferred, sir, so the house elves went a bit overboard.”

Snape looked over the tray, sniffed, and selected a piece of toast. He bit a corner off, crunched and swallowed, and then turned his flat stare on Harry again. “Well, Potter, get it over with.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Get what over with?”

Snape waved the toast dismissively. “You’re glad I’m alive. You’re sorry you misjudged me. You’re grateful for my efforts. Etcetera, etcetera, ad infinitum and so on.”  His tone was one of infinite boredom.

“I _am_ glad you’re alive,” Harry said calmly, “although that’s rather moderated by the news you’re under a killing curse. I’m _not_ sorry that I believed exactly what you wanted, in fact _needed_ , me to believe. And while I’m grateful, of course, for what you did, I know you didn’t do it for me.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose you do, don’t you. Where are my memories, Potter?”

“In a vial in a warded box, which is in my Gringotts vault.”

“Gringotts?” Snape’s eyebrows went up. “I’m surprised they still let you bank there.”

Harry grinned. “So am I, a bit, but Luna says the bad publicity from turning away the Boy Who Lived was more than they could afford.”

“The privilege of celebrity,” Snape bit out. “I’d like those memories back, if you could be so kind.”

“I’ll fetch them for you tomorrow,” Harry promised promptly. “No one else has seen them, you know, Professor. Not even the Minister.”

Snape muttered something that sounded like _small mercies,_ and tossed his half-eaten toast back down onto the tray. “Well, we’ve discussed _old times_. Was there anything else? If not, allow me to bid you _goodbye_.”

Six years of schoolboy instincts wanted to respond to that tone by exiting the room as quickly as possible. Harry forced himself to sit calmly. “Well, there’s the curse.”

“Come to gawk?” Snape jeered.

“Come to help,” Harry said. “I _am_ an Auror, you know. Dark curses are sort of what I do.”

“Potter, when Albus Dumbledore was overcome with a curse more powerful than even _he_ could combat, he didn’t send for an _Auror_ ,” Snape said wearily. “He sent for me. Do you really imagine that whatever skills you have managed to acquire in the past few years can prevail against magic _I_ can’t defeat?”

“I won’t know until I try, will I?” Harry said. “And it’s my job to try, so I’m afraid, Professor, I’m going to have to insist you show me your arm.”

Snape shot him a look of such concentrated hatred that Harry thought he was going to refuse, and perhaps even try to physically evict him from the room. He met the dark gaze as steadily as he could. _You don_ _’t scare me any more, Professor Snape._ Finally Snape made a faint scoffing noise, and pushed up his left sleeve.

It was as bad as Hermione had described, an oval of dead flesh with an aura of evil that made Harry feel faintly sick. “When did it start?” he asked quietly.

“A little over five weeks ago.”

“And you’ve told Minerva and Poppy Pomfrey?”

“I’m neither a fool nor a martyr, Potter,” Snape said contemptuously. “Of course I told them.”

 _And shortly thereafter Minerva McGonagall_ _had owls on the way to Hermione, Ron, to me_ _…_ He slipped out his wand and lifted it toward the mark.

Snape flinched back. “Kindly _don_ _’t_.”

“I need to get a better sense of it,” Harry said reasonably. “I thought you’d prefer me not to touch it.”

After a moment, Snape extended his arm again, slowly. “There’s nothing you can do, Potter. When I say I know more about such things than any witch or wizard alive today, it’s not an idle boast.”

With his wand tip just above the mark of the curse, Harry could sense the spells Snape had used to contain it. “These are the same spells you used on Professor Dumbledore?”

“Correct.”

There was a faint familiarity to them. _Perhaps I_ _’m remembering something I sensed, back then._ More likely, though, it was because this was Snape’s own spell, and so had a family resemblance to the spells Harry had learnt from the Half Blood Prince’s book. _A certain style_ … “If you’d be willing to teach them to me, sir, I’d be glad to learn. There are other people they could help.” He paused, but Snape said nothing. _At least that_ _’s not ‘no’._ “Did anything in particular happen, in the days before you realised you’d been cursed?”

“Nobody owled me any ancient and mysterious objects, if that’s what you mean,” Snape said coldly.

“That’s useful to know, but it actually _wasn_ _’t_ what I meant,” Harry said. “It’s been five years. Why now? Why five weeks ago?”

“I would have thought that was obvious,” Snape said, voice dripping with contempt. “Either it has taken my assailant some time to prepare his or her attack, and they were only ready to commence recently, or it was only recently they discovered that I survived. Or a combination of the two.”

  “Probably,” Harry agreed. “But not certainly. And every possibility needs to be checked out. Anything special about the time of year, that you know of?”

“No —” Snape said, and then stopped. Stopped speaking, stopped moving, all but stopped breathing. Harry had the curious feeling that, despite the fact that he was looking directly at him, Snape had somehow withdrawn utterly from the room, leaving nothing but a Severus Snape-shaped black hole, a collapsed star dense enough to draw away the light and warmth from the room.

“Professor?” he asked cautiously.

Snape shuddered, and came back. “No. Nothing.”

“That didn’t —”

“I said _nothing_ ,” Snape said viciously. “Are you deaf? Have you caught your friend Granger’s inability to comprehend simple spoken words?” He pulled his arm away from Harry’s wand and yanked his sleeve down. “You’re done here, Potter. Go.”

“Not yet —”

“I said _go!_ ” Snape flared, suddenly on his feet. “I am _done_ with your questions! I am _done_ with teaching you, watching over you, putting up with your impertinence and your arrogance, just like your father! I am _done_ with _you_ , Potter, once and for all, so take your shiny Auror badge and your _saviour complex_ and get out of my sight!”

Old impulses fired, urging Harry to jump to his feet and fling Snape’s comments back in his face. _How dare you criticise my father_ _… you think that_ you _could change but he couldn_ _’t … do you think I_ chose _to face what I had to face?_

But he was not the sixteen-year-old boy who Snape had so successfully taunted, not anymore, and the words lost their power precisely because they were so clearly chosen to hurt.

Harry sat still, and looked Snape steadily in the face. “Feel better to get that off your chest?”

Snape let out a cry of frustration that was almost a growl and swung away as if he could no longer stand the sight of Harry. He scrubbed his hands over his face and then raked his fingers through his hair.

“I will go, sir,” Harry said, “in a minute. But two things first. We’re letting the Ministry know there’s potentially a Death Eater out there they haven’t previously known about — an anonymous tip to me, is our story.”

“You’ll do what you want, you always do,” Snape said bitterly.

“And secondly, I thought you might want to go back to where-ever you were staying before Hermione told you I had the Marauder’s Map. Your quarters, I presume, since apparently they’ve been impenetrably warded for the past five years?”

“Wherever I go, I doubt I’ll be able to avoid you and your little friends.”

“Probably not,” Harry agreed. “But you might find this useful.” He took the folded Invisibility Cloak from beneath his robes, and when Snape didn’t turn around, laid it on the other man’s chair. “My father’s cloak, although I hope you won’t hold that against it. Given your circumstances, I rather feel you have more need of it that I do, at present. You’ll be able to go where you like, with that.”

Snape cast a cold glance at the cloak. “You’d better be prepared for him to haunt you for giving his precious cloak to _me_.”

“Lending,” Harry corrected. “And I think he’d approve, but actually I don’t much care.” He stood up. “I’ll leave you in peace, then, sir, but I’d appreciate it if you’d try to think of anything about July that might have something to do with why the curse struck you then. I’ll let you know when there’s news from the Ministry.”

He turned to go, but stopped when Snape spoke.

“You know, Potter, all those years ago, I was wrong,” he said venomously. “You really are _nothing_ like your father.”

Harry’s fists clenched. He swung around and saw a spark of malicious glee in Snape’s eyes. “Now look —” he said.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Snape said coldly. “Did I insult the memory of Saint James?”

Harry stared at him. “It’s not going to work, you know. I’m not going to stop helping you, no matter how unpleasant you are to me. And besides, I know my dad wasn’t a saint.”

Snape raised his eyebrows. “The scales have fallen from your eyes?”

“They fell from my eyes a long time ago. Look, Professor. You don’t need to convince me that my dad and his friends treated you awfully.” Harry ran his fingers through his hair and said forcefully, “It made me sick, seeing it in the Pensieve. I felt worse about it than even about people taking Luna’s things, and I _like_ Luna and didn’t even know the people giving her a hard time. I’d like to think if I’d been there, I would have said something, done something. But he did grow up eventually, alright? About a decade too late, if you ask me, but he did learn to be a decent person. I am my father’s son, not just my mother’s, and there’s a lot of him in me, and I hope the good bits, like there’s a lot of her in me, and I hope the good bits of her, too.” He took a deep breath. “But I know you’ll never be able to see that about him, and in your position I might not be able to either. You know Draco Malfoy hired Hermione a few years ago? And is even polite to her?”

“What does Draco Malfoy have to do with anything?” Snape sneered.

“People change, Professor. People _can_ change. I’m not asking you to change your opinion of my dad. But I’ll make you a deal, alright? I won’t talk to you about the good man he turned into, if you don’t keep harping on about what a complete arse he was at school.” Harry grinned. “Just like Draco doesn’t tell Hermione about how the Slytherins were more vulnerable to Voldemort because the rest of the school ostracised them, and she doesn’t tell him that the Death Eaters were vulnerable to Voldemort because pure-blood inbreeding led to intellectual disabilities.”

A slight smile touched Snape’s thin lips. “Wise. On both their parts.”

“So do we have a deal?” Harry asked.

Snape studied him. “Are there any other topics you’d like to declare off limits?”

Harry grinned. “Loads. I’ll tell you as they come up.”

“As will I.”

“Deal,” Harry said. “And now I have to go and get ready to teach five ways to deal with Doxies. I’ll see you later.”

He was almost at the door when Snape spoke again. “When did you turn into a grown-up, Potter?”

“Oh, I don’t know, sir,” Harry said cheerfully over his shoulder. “Somewhere in between dying, coming back to life, and killing the greatest dark wizard of our time, I expect.”

“Five points from Gryffindor for cheek,” Snape said sourly.

“I’ll take it off the three thousand I earned for saving the wizarding world, shall I?” Harry said, and closed the door before Snape could come up with another retort.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words Harry remembers Snape saying (So the boy … the boy must die? And what follows) are from what Harry saw in the Pensieve and are taken from the book, and slightly different from the movie.  
> In the movie canon, there’s no indication that Snape used spells as well as potions to contain the curse to Dumbledore’s hand, but in the book incantations are used as well as a potion.


	25. Chapter 25: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore's Army develops a plan of attack.

Hermione scanned the Great Hall again. “He’s not here,” she whispered to Ron. “Harry’s still not here.”

“I can see that, I’ve got eyes, don’t I?” He reached for another sandwich.

“How can you just sit there and eat?” Hermione hissed. “Why are you _always_ able to just sit there and eat?”

“Because I’ve never found trouble to be improved by meeting it on an empty stomach,” Ron answered equably. He put the sandwich on Hermione’s plate instead of his own. “Get that down you.”

She picked it up gingerly. “I don’t think I can. I feel too sick.”

The words came out incautiously loud, and a sharp elbow dug into her ribs on her other side. “Hermione?” Ginny whispered. “You’re not up the duff, are you?”

Hermione dropped the sandwich. “No! I’m just worried about Harry.”

“Because the man who killed a basilisk at age twelve and a Dark Lord at age seventeen is obviously in mortal peril trying to find a classroom,” Ginny said. “Makes sense.”

Hermione bit her lip. “Well, both those things did happen right here at this school,” she said. It had the advantage of being true, although it wasn’t the entire truth. _I can_ _’t exactly tell her that what I’m really worried about is that Professor Snape — who, by the way, Ginny, didn’t I mention it, is still alive — has said something really awful to Harry._

_Or Harry said something really awful to him._

_Oh, why didn_ _’t I insist on going with him? Sure, we know_ now _that we were all always on the same side —_

There had been a lot of years of hating each other before then, though. _And that might have been based on misunderstanding on Harry_ _’s part … but it certainly wasn’t on Snape’s._

“Look, here he is,” Ron said, and Hermione looked up to see Harry entering the Great Hall through the door beside the teacher’s table. 

“Are you alright?” she asked him as Luna shuffled up and Harry sat next to Ron.

“Bit dazed,” he admitted. “Not in the magical sense.”

“I should have come with you,” Hermione whispered across Ron. “He hasn’t changed at all.”

 Harry grinned at her. “No, but _I_ have. I’m alright, Hermione. I just wanted to have a bit of a think, and I wanted to check some places on the grounds for the location of the D.A.D.A jinx —”

“Find it?” Ron asked.

“No, but we can rule out the main gates, the Hogsmeade gates, the front doors, and anywhere on the path down to Hagrid’s hut,” Harry said.

“Why Hagrid’s hut?” Luna asked.

Harry shrugged. “A hunch. I mean, it’s also the way to the Forbidden Forest, isn’t it?”

Ron finished his sandwich and eyed the chicken salad speculatively. “How early do you think old Tom started his habit of hiding things in important places?”

“That early, at least,” Harry said. “He hid the Ravenclaw diadem in the Room of Requirement when he came to ask Dumbledore for the job.”

“But the curse can’t be on something in there,” Hermione said. “Not the storage room form of it, anyway. Everything in there was destroyed with Fiendfyre.”

“But the rest of the Room wasn’t,” Ron said. “What if he hid the object carrying the curse in a different form of the Room?”

“Then we’ll never find it,” Harry said. “Not without knowing exactly what he was looking for when the Room gave him a place to hide it.”

“Yes, you will,” Ginny put in. “Just ask Neville. He got to be absolutely brilliant at understanding how the Room of Requirement worked, that year Professor Snape was Headmaster.”

Harry nodded. “Brilliant idea. He can have a go tonight — I think we should get together in the clubhouse after dinner.”

Hermione caught his eye, and raised an eyebrow inquiringly. Harry gave her a slight nod, confirming her suspicion that his agenda for the meeting would be rather less about the D.A.D.A curse and rather more about the continued existence of one particular former D.A.D.A teacher.

Fortunately, the afternoon proved too full of classroom challenges to allow her to dwell on the way the others would react. She had her first year class of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws again, which kept her dashing back and forth across the classroom to correct mistakes and still produced two explosions that required containment spells. That was followed by the fourth year class, which was going swimmingly until a Gryffindor prankster decided to enliven the afternoon by enchanting her cauldron to be self-stirring, and managed to make it perambulating instead. Hermione had to chase it around the classroom for five minutes while the students stood on their stools before she got a clear shot for a _Finite Incantatem._

“Ten points from Gryffindor, Miss Merriborough,” she said, grimly tucking the strands of hair shaken loose in the chase back into place. “Two feet on what went wrong with that spell, on my desk by Monday morning. And detention for the rest of this week, cleaning cauldrons the old-fashioned way.”

Which meant, of course, Hermione had effectively given herself detention as well, and had to spend the hour between the last class of the day and dinner watching Louise Merriborough scrub cauldrons by hand without even having marking to profitably occupy her time. She spent it reviewing her notes on the Man of Mystery’s improved healing salve, making sure she was confident she could brew it herself when her supply ran out.

At dinner, thought, her imagination had the chance to run riot, and she had to force herself to eat. _What will Neville say when he learns the teacher who was his personal Bogart is the person who needs his help? Harry forgave me for not telling him straight away, but will Ginny?_

 _The three of them lived through the year of Headmaster Snape in a way Ron, Harry and I didn_ _’t — can they forgive him, now they know why he acted as he did? Do they even really believe Harry, the way Ron and I do?_

Finally, the meal was over. Although they were all staff now, and could have simply said they were going off to talk, the old instincts held. Without needing to discuss it, all six of them slipped away separately, apparently bound in different directions. Hermione herself went half-way to the staffroom before stopping, miming remembering something she had to do, and ducking through the fourth floor corridors towards the Room of Requirement.

She was the last to arrive except for Luna, who came in a moment later carrying a plate heaped with pastries.

Ron, Neville and Harry reached for them simultaneously, and Luna held them out of their reach. “They’re for Hermione,” she said with mild reproach. “She hardly ate anything at dinner.” She set the plate down in front of Hermione with a smile. “Perhaps you’ll feel more like eating when you get rid of your Wrackspurts.”

“Er…” Hermione picked up a pastry, to be polite. “Thanks.”

Luna gave her a serene smile, and passed the plate to Ginny.

“I’ve got something to tell you all,” Harry said, without further preamble. “Something you need to know, and have a right to know, but it’s got to stay between us.”

“Of course, Harry,” Luna said, and Ginny and Neville echoed her.

“Severus Snape is still alive,” Harry said bluntly.

“What?” Ginny and Neville said in unison.

“That explains a lot,” Luna said calmly. “Have an alexandertorte.”

Ginny stared at her. “What does it explain, exactly?”

“Why the Bloody Baron has been making himself scarce whenever Neville wants to ask him about the new ghost in the dungeons. The ghosts don’t lie to the staff here, you know, but he’s the Slytherin ghost and Professor Snape was Slytherin Head of House.” She selected a circular pastry dusted with sugar and nibbled the edge. “The Baron would want to protect him, if he’s in hiding.”

“Why would he be in hiding?” Neville asked. “No-one thinks he was ever a real Death Eater, not any more.”

Luna turned her wide-eyed gaze on him. “He’s obviously in hiding, Neville, or else everyone would know he’s here.” She studied her pastry with an air of disappointment. “I always expect these to have more raisins in them than they do. I suppose you’re sure it’s him, are you?”

“I’m sure,” Harry said. He glanced at Hermione. “And so —”

“So am I,” Hermione said. “That’s the promise I made, to him, to keep it a secret. I wanted to tell you, but …”

“If you’ve both seen him it probably isn’t a Naghertoff,” Luna said. When they all stared at her, she gave a little shake of her head. “You know, a Naghertoff. They live in cemeteries, mostly, but you find them in other places. They take the shape of a person you miss. They’re often mistaken for ghosts, but they’re more solid.”

“He’s not a, er, a Nagertoff,” Harry said firmly.

“Are you _sure_ it’s him?” Ginny asked, picking up a pastry. “Not someone pretending?”

“Yes,” Hermione said patiently. “I cast Revelio when I first saw him, and used Thief’s Downfall for good measure.”

“Did you try Riddikulus, though?” Luna asked thoughtfully.

Neville guffawed, spraying crumbs from his own snack. “You think Harry and Hermione have been taken in by my Boggart?”

“They can be quite cunning,” Luna said.

“Yes, but Luna, Professor Snape would only be _my_ Boggart if he was telling me, I don’t know, that my Potions Mastery was being rescinded,” Hermione pointed out. “And he definitely wouldn’t be Harry’s.”

“True,” Luna said. “And when you really think about it, it isn’t all that unlikely, is it? After all, Montague Donnelly lived secretly in Hogwarts for fifty years without being discovered.”

“In the Room of Requirement?” Harry asked.

“Oh, no. In the Great Hall,” Luna said serenely. “He disguised himself as a statue, you see.”

“Of course he did,” Ron said, but he said it under his breath. 

“Perhaps Professor Snape should try it?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not suggest it to him,” Harry said with a grin. “He’s not exactly overjoyed that I know he’s here as it is.”

“Well, he wouldn’t be, would he?” Luna said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’d think you’re the last person he’d want to talk to.”

Harry nodded. “Because of my parents.”

“Oh, no,” Luna said. “Although I’m sure that’s part of it. No, it’s because he’s embarrassed, don’t you think?” She looked from one blank face to another. “Harry’s seen Professor Snape’s memories from school. Teenage boys are terribly awkward, aren’t they? And teenage boys in love are worse. How would you like it, Ron, if someone watched your memories of asking Fleur Delacour to the Yule Ball?” 

Ron blushed. “That’s different, though, isn’t it? I was a right prat.”

“ _He_ might feel that he was a right prat, too,” Harry said thoughtfully.

Hermione shot him a glance but didn’t pry. She could certainly remember a few moments of her _own_ adolescence that made her burn with embarrassment to recall, and she was well aware that the version of Professor Snape’s memories that Harry had recounted had been radically abbreviated. _He loved her, they had a fight_ _… he said something terrible, he tried to apologise but my mum wouldn’t have it._

“Anyway,” she said loudly. “None of that matters any more. What matters is working out who’s put the curse on Professor Snape, and how to break it.”

“It’s got to be someone powerful,” Harry said. “I had the impression from what he said to Professor Dumbledore, from, you know, the Pensieve, that if _that_ curse hadn’t been as awful and dangerous as it was, Professor Snape would have been able to lift it outright.” 

“And placed through the Dark Mark?” Neville asked, and when Harry and Hermione both nodded, he sighed. “That’s champion, that is, a very powerful Death Eater no-one knows about.”

“Kingsley Shacklebolt has started an investigation,” Ron said. “Of Harry’s ‘anonymous tip’.”

“The Death Eater doesn’t have to be powerful,” Hermione said. “Someone could be _using_ them.”

“Still not good news though, is it?” Neville pointed out.

“We need to look at this logically,” Hermione said. She dug in her bag and produced a notebook. “Look, I’ve made a list of possibilities. One, a Death Eater casting the curse using their own Dark Mark. Two, someone who _isn_ _’t_ a Death Eater but has access to one —”

“You know what I’ve just realised?” Harry asked a bit grimly. “That’s the whole staff of Azkaban.”

There was a small silence while that sank in. “Is it likely, though, Harry?” Ginny asked at last. “Kingsley’s cleaned up the Ministry. Surely anyone with sympathies to Voldemort was well and truly weeded out?”

 “Still, we need to consider it,” Hermione said. “Even if it isn’t likely, it’s _possible_.” She scribbled a note. “Now, as to point one, and also point two if it _isn_ _’t_ someone from the Azkaban guards gone rogue, we have two possibilities. Possibility ‘a’ is that there’s a Death Eater no-one ever knew about. The only way I can think of that happening is that they got the Dark Mark back in the early days and went abroad immediately afterwards. Otherwise, Professor Snape for one would have known they were a Death Eater.”

“Hardly the sort of loyal soldier who’d be thirsting for revenge,” Neville said.

“Or, ‘b’, there’s someone who’s presumed dead but isn’t.” Harry opened his mouth and Hermione spoke over him. “I know all the dead on the other side were magically identified, but we know at least one person who supposedly died in the battle and didn’t, don’t we? Are we _sure_ there weren’t more?”

“I don’t know about you,” Ron said, “but I don’t look forward to telling Kingsley he’s going to have to have the graves exhumed.”

Hermione bit her lip. “I don’t think we should. Unless it’s a last resort.”

“Well, no, it’ll cause an _awful_ —”

“That’s not why, Ron!” Hermione burst out. “Think about it! If the Ministry reopens an investigation into exactly who did and _didn_ _’t_ die that day, there’s at least one missing body they’ll fail to find, isn’t there?”

“Yes, but not a Death Eater body,” Ron said.

“Not as far as Harry says,” Hermione pointed out. “And we believe you, Harry, _we_ do — but does everyone? At the very least, there’ll have to be an inquiry. The Wizengamot will want Pensieve testimony, or Legilimens, or Veritaserum, or all three probably. We can’t put Professor Snape through that, not unless there’s no other choice.” 

“I’ll get the list of names,” Harry said after a moment. “There’ll be a least some, and hopefully most, that we can rule out. I mean, I _saw_ Bellatrix Lestrange die, for example.”

Hermione rubbed her arm, realised she was doing it, and stopped. “Yaxley. I saw him go down.”

“That’s two. We can probably get up to four or five,” Ginny said. “There’s still going to be a lot who we have no idea about.”

“Hogwarts: A History,” Hermione said. “I’ll put it about that I want to update the chapter on the battle with accurate information. That will give me an excuse to ask all the Professors, and Kingsley, and _everyone_ just what they saw.”  

Harry nodded. “Alright. Me to get the list. Hermione to start questioning people, starting with the teachers here. Ron — are you still friends with that fellow from our first year training, who went to work at Azkaban? What was his name, Jimmy something?”

“Simpson, Jimmy Simpson,” Ron said. He shrugged. “Not close friends, but we have a drink every now and again.”

“Well, Floo him and suggest a pint, and while you’re at it, get him talking about the people he works with.”

“Oh, right,” Ron said. “Hey, Jimmy, any Death Eater sympathisers on your shift?” Hermione glared at him, and he grinned. “Don’t worry, I’ll be subtle about it.”

“It doesn’t have to be someone on You-Know-Who’s side,” Luna said quietly. “It could be someone who hated him, you know.” At Ron’s blank look, she gave a small smile. “Hermione said it. Not everybody believed Harry, did they? With Professor Snape dead, there wasn’t any reason for them to make a fuss about it, but if they found out he was alive …”

“I wish you hadn’t said that,” Harry said after a pause. “I mean, you’re absolutely right, but we’ve just expanded the list of people who might want Severus Snape dead by several thousand.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Luna observed, and Hermione silently agreed. _Thousands_ _… what chance do we have?_

 _So what chance does_ he _have?_ Her scar ached, and she pressed the heel of her hand against it, through her shirt. These days, a few seconds’ pressure was usually enough to calm the nerves. _That new salve really is an improvement._

And then, _I wonder_ _… I wonder if the same principles could apply to healing_ potions?

Hermione made a note to herself. Aloud, she said firmly, “Well, we have to start somewhere, don’t we?”

“The month of July is a good place to start.” Luna reached for another pastry and her face fell when she found the plate empty. “Not always, of course. It’s a very bad place to start searching for Billywigs, because it’s winter where they live, then. But I think in this case, the month of July is where we should start.”

“But Luna,” Hermione said patiently, “Professor Snape said he can’t contain the curse that long. We can’t wait for July.”

“Oh, not next July,” Luna said calmly. “Last July. Or the July before that.” She gave Hermione a wide-eyed look. “Isn’t that what Harry said? The curse started in July?”

“That far with a Time Turner, even if we had one, would —”

“You don’t need a Time Turner to search July, silly,” Luna said. “You need a newspaper.”

“It’s a good idea, Luna,” Harry said. “But Professor Snape pointed out, and I think it’s a good point, that it’s likely it was only in July that the person who’s cursed him found out how, or found out he was alive.”

“I expect Professor Snape is confused in his mind,” Luna said serenely. “Being cursed can do that to a person. There’s no such thing as coincidence when it comes to curses. Why, just look at Minister Scrimgeour.  He went hunting for Nogtails, which is quite unnecessarily cruel since all you need is a white dog to keep them away, and one year and one month later he died.”

“Luna,” Harry said, and hesitated, quite clearly trying to find a tactful way to put what they were all thinking into words.

“I think it’s an excellent idea, Luna,” Hermione said firmly. _She might find something, and if I come up with something else for her to do, I_ _’ll just tell her then._ “You find out if there’s anything in particular about July that might be to do with the curse.”

“What about me?” Neville asked. “I’m good with plants, but I don’t think that’ll be much good for curse-breaking.”

“Plants, and chopping the head off dirty great snakes,” Harry said. “And teaching, right? Who’s the most likely sort of person to have spotted Professor Snape around Hogwarts?”

Neville’s face cleared. “Students.”

“You were here last year. We need you to make a list of the students most likely to have seen Professor Snape — the ones with a tendency to wander around when and where they shouldn’t — with special attention to the ones with Death Eaters in the family, or —” Harry glanced at Luna. “Or students who lost family members to them.”

“The Hufflepuffs’ll be easy,” Neville said, “but I don’t know about the other Houses.”

“Ask the Heads of House,” Ron suggested. “Put it, like, that you’re wanting advice on how to handle students with a tendency to break the rules —”

“Maisie Wilkins and Colin Aitkins,” Hermione suggested. “I caught both of them out of bed after hours on their first day.”

“Say you want to make sure to steer them on the right path, and ask how Professor Flitwick and the others handle students like that,” Ron said. “And ask them for _examples_.”

“On their first night, really?” Neville asked, looking concerned.

“Yes, exactly like that,” Ron said. “You look like you really care.”

“But I _do_ care!” Neville said. “There’s all sorts of trouble they could get in, without a charm between them for protection.”

“And me?” Ginny asked.

Harry grinned. “Well, playing to your strengths, in particular your ability to drink anyone we both know under the table … why don’t you see if Aberforth Dumbledore has heard anything interesting?”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s not canon that Yaxley was one of the Death Eaters killed in the final battle — canonically, his fate is unknown.  
> In the movie, although not the book, while Hermione is captive at Malfoy Manor Bellatrix Lestrange carves the word ‘mudblood’ on her arm. I am going with the movie as far as that incident is concerned.


	26. Chapter 26: Ginny Weasley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny meets an old friend and ally

 

 

 

Not being generally in the market for stolen goods or for potions that had happened to fall off the back of a broomstick, Ginny Weasley felt distinctly out of place as she sidled into the Hog’s Head Inn. It would have been poor manners to have her wand out and ready, but she fingered it in her sleeve as she edged past a cloaked figure and made her way to the bar.

Bright blue eyes regarded her from a tangle of long hair. “Well, then,” the barman said, not pausing his polishing of a dirty glass with a dirty cloth. 

“Hello, Mr Dumbledore,” Ginny said. She produced her own glass from within her robes. “Could I have a drink?”

“I suppose you’re old enough,” Aberforth conceded. “But you don’t look much like my usual customers, if you don’t mind my saying.”

Ginny glanced over her shoulder. Apart from the hooded and cloaked individual she’d passed, there were only two other customers: one wearing a hat with a wide brim that cast all except the tip of their nose into impenetrable shadow, and another whose hair was even wilder than Aberforth’s. “I suppose I don’t,” she said.

“You’d better come through to the back,” Aberforth said, tossed the cloth over his shoulder, and turned away.

Ginny followed him, side-stepping a goat, and found herself in the familiar back room. From the wall, Ariana regarded them sadly. “I hope you’ve been well,” Ginny said tentatively. “And your goats … all in good health, too?”

Aberforth gave a bark of laughter, and opened a cupboard, taking out a dusty bottle. “As well as can be expected, at my age, and theirs.” He took the glass from Ginny and splashed an extremely generous measure of what looked like Firewhisky into it. He took a gulp and offered it to Ginny.

Reasoning that the Firewhisky would doubtless kill anything contagious, Ginny took a belt herself.

“So what is it?” Aberforth asked gruffly. “Children’s Crusade to save the world again? More missions for my mad brother?”

“I can’t exactly tell you,” Ginny said, eyes watering. She took another gulp of Firewhisky and held the glass out. “I mean, it’s not for Professor Dumbledore, but I can’t exactly tell you what it is.”

He scowled at her. “Haven’t proved myself trustworthy, is that it?  Hiding you lot, feeding you lot, smuggling you in and out under the noses of Death Eaters, for all those months, not enough, eh?”

“I trust you — _we_ trust you — with our lives,” Ginny said quickly. “It’s … it’s complicated, that’s all.” She fell back on Hermione’s phrasing. “It isn’t my secret to tell. If it was, I’d tell you in a heartbeat.”

Aberforth studied her for several agonising heartbeats, and then refilled the glass. “Well, then, that’s another thing, isn’t it.” He pulled back a chair and sat down. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me what sort of mess you’ve gotten yourself into, girl.”

Ginny took the seat opposite him. “It’s sort of difficult to explain. But I was wondering — _we_ were wondering, have you heard any odd stories lately?”

He drank, and pushed the glass across the table to her. “Odd stories are the only kind I hear, in here. Who’s we, anyway?”

“Harry, and Ron —”

He snorted. “Aurors. Waste of decent magical talent, that.”

“Neville —”

“Another Auror.”

“No, he’s teaching Herbology with Professor Sprout now,” Ginny said quickly. “And Hermione —”

“Goody two-shoes,” Aberforth said dismissively.

“Not really,” Ginny said, thinking of some of the things Hermione had gotten up to in her school years.  “And me, of course, and Luna Lovegood.”

He brightened noticeably. “Luna Lovegood. Always liked that girl. Got her head screwed on right, she does.”

Ginny blinked at him, and then took a belt of the Firewhisky to cover her confusion. “Anyway.” She pushed the glass back across the table. “We were wondering if you’d heard any rumours about, possibly, any Death Eaters who hadn’t been caught —”

“Would have told the rest of the Order if I had.” He paused. “Them that’s left, which is precious few.”

“Or maybe about something strange up at Hogwarts?”

He refilled the glass again. “Place is crammed to the rafters with little baby witches and wizards, there’s always something strange.”

“Different strange,” Ginny said. The most likely way word of Professor Snape’s survival could have gotten out, after the students, was via the Hog’s Head. _Not that Aberforth would talk, if he knows, but he might have overheard something_ _…_

He drank, pushed the glass back to her. “Isn’t that what ‘strange’ is? ‘Different’?”

“You know what I mean,” Ginny said. She picked up the glass and studied him over the rim of it. “There are stories of a new ghost in the dungeons.”

Aberforth snorted. “Number of people died up there five years ago, I’d be surprised if there’s just one.”

“Fine,” Ginny said. She took a gulp and held the glass out to him. “Anything else, though? Strange talk in here? Strange customers?”

“Always.”

Ginny snorted. “You know what I’m asking, Mr Dumbledore.”

“I do,” he said. “And I’m telling you as much as you’re telling me, aren’t I?”

“I told you, it’s not my secret to tell!”

“And my customer’s secrets aren’t mine to tell, either,” he pointed out, bottle poised above the glass. “You Apparating home, girl?” 

Ginny shook her head. “Walking.”

“That’s alright, then.” He poured again. “So Harry Potter and your brother Ron sent you out to see what old Aberforth might know, heh? Did you wonder why they sent you, instead of coming themselves?”

“I can hold my liquor,” Ginny said.

He gave a grunt of a laugh. “Or they think a pretty face’ll loosen my tongue.”

“Not one without horns,” Ginny shot back, and the grunt turned into a wheezing chuckle.

“Oh, I do like you, girl. I always did. Not as much as the Lovegood lass, mind, but you always did have a way about you.” He tossed back the drink and set the glass down with a bang. “Now let me tell you what I think. I think the pack of you, my brother’s child soldiers, did as much and more as could ever be asked of you. You all lost a piece of your childhood, some of you more than others, and far too many of you lost your lives. Older and wiser wizards and witches, or those that ought to have been wiser at any rate, who should have been protecting you, let you into the front lines or outright pushed you there.” He poured again, and drank again. “And now where are you? You had the right idea, girl, getting on with your real life, but the others? Aurors! I ask you. And you, you’re back here, worrying and fretting yourself over something that has no right to be giving you grief.” He leaned forward, fixing her with his bright blue gaze. “Let the dead bury the dead, Ginny Weasley. Let us old folk fight our own battles, and you fly that fast broom of yours as far away from the past as you can.”

“But what if there’s someone who can’t fight his own battle?” Ginny asked. “Someone who needs our help? Someone who might die without it?”

“Let him die,” Aberforth said harshly. He stood up, chair scraping across the uneven wooden boards, thin and straight and rather terrible in his sudden anger. “That’s what the old are supposed to do, isn’t it? Fight for the young, and die for them when need be. It’s not supposed to be the other way around.”

Ginny looked up at him. “I don’t think we can,” she said. “And I don’t think you’re right, anyway. It’s not about sitting back and enjoying yourself until it’s your turn to shoulder the burden. It’s about doing what you can, when you can, where you’re needed.”

“You’ll understand, when you’re my age,” Aberforth said. His hand came down heavy on the table. “You’ll understand what an awful thing it is to watch the old shovel the young into the fires of war.”

She rose to her feet and faced him. “And when someone young is the only one who can do the job? I suppose Harry should have said ‘sure, I’ll defeat Voldemort, but not ‘till I’ve had my gap year’?”

“He shouldn’t be making it a habit!” the old wizard said. “Nor should you.”

“We’re not,” Ginny said hotly. “We’re helping someone who helped us — who helped me, personally, not in some abstract sense but in the very specific sense of very _specifically_ protecting me from being on the receiving end of the Cruciatus curse — someone who gave more than any of us, _any_ of us. So if you won’t help me, I’ll just go, shall I?”

“Well, well,” Aberforth said. “You’ve met who haunts the Potions classroom, then?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ginny’s reference to the Cruciatus curse refers to Snape catching Ginny, Neville and Luna trying to steal the Sword of Gryffindor from his office, and sending them to serve detention with Hagrid in the Forbidden Forest instead of handing them over to the Carrows for detention — and the Carrows, we find out later, used students in detention for Dark Arts classes to practice the Cruciatus curse. Which the three might not have realised was protecting them at the time, but once Snape’s true loyalties were revealed, I expect they (like the readers) understood that incident in a different light. And in my head-canon, the members of the D.A. in hiding in the Room of Requirement mentioned it to Aberforth on one of the many occasions they came to him for food.
> 
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	27. Chapter 27: Ginny Weasley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aberforth is unhelpful … or is he helpful?

Ginny sat back down, staring at Aberforth. “Have you?”

“Oh, no, not face to face. But I know his name. And I know what he was. Better than you, girl, because I knew him longer than you. Like my brother.” He settled back into his own chair, filled the glass and pushed it across the table to Ginny with one finger. “Make that last. There’s no more except what I’ll be drinking.”

“Thanks.” She cupped the glass in her hands. “What do you mean, you know what he was?”

Aberforth took a pull from the bottle. “A man who made a bad mistake.”

“And who did everything he could to make up for it,” Ginny countered.

“Did I say he didn’t?”

“Then why doesn’t he deserve help?”

 “Did I say he doesn’t?”

“You did, actually,” Ginny said. “Quite explicitly.”

“I don’t think I did,” Aberforth said. “I think I said that it shouldn’t be you doing the helping. There’s a castle full of Professors older than twenty-five. There’s a hospital full of healers, and Ministry full of Aurors, and the Order of the Phoenix, what’s left of us.” He took another drink from the bottle, and Ginny sipped from her glass, to be companionable. “Let him ask us for help. That’s what we’re for.”

“And if he doesn’t, if he won’t?”

 “Then I’d say that’s his lookout, wouldn’t you?” Aberforth shrugged. “He might have his reasons. Might think like I do, that you’ve got better things to do with your young lives than fret over the troubles of people well able to take care of themselves.”

Ginny took a sizable swig of her Firewhisky. “Well, that’s me told, then. But if you were going to be helpful, Mr Dumbledore, what could you tell me?”

The old wizard screwed up his face. Ginny had given up hope of getting an answer when he suddenly said, “He didn’t have friends, you know. When he was young. He never had the talent for it. For plenty of other things, though, he had talent, talent and power to burn. That’s a bad combination.” He fixed her with a sharp blue gaze. “Do you know why?”

“Because …” Ginny paused, feeling suddenly that this was an important answer to get right. She thought back to her first years at Hogwarts, to all the people who’d wanted to be Harry’s friend because he was the Boy Who Lived and the way he’d looked at them with slight bemusement and with irritation and gone back to talking to Ron and Hermione. “Because there are people who are _drawn_ to power, and that can look like being drawn to the person who has the power, if they don’t have anything to compare it to.”

Aberforth nodded. “He was hard to like.” Ginny opened her mouth and he shot her a sharp glance. “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with that. _I_ _’m_ hard to like. Cuts down on the meaningless interactions with idiots.”

“ _I_ like you,” Ginny said, honestly. _More than Professor Dumbledore, really._ Albus Dumbledore had been powerful, and wise, and awe-inspiring. Aberforth Dumbledore had grumbled every day about the inconvenience keeping Dumbledore’s Army fed put him to, and the amount teenagers ate, and their idiotic stubbornness at not taking themselves off to safety — and had never missed a meal delivery, and had tucked in little paper bags that turned out to contain Fizzing Whizbees and Every Flavour Beans and chocolate frogs, and had managed to find out when their birthdays so he could include a cake and a badly wrapped pair of socks with that evening’s delivery.

Aberforth laughed. “So you see,” he said, as if he’d explained everything. He pointed at her glass. “Finish that, and be on your way. I’ve got customers to see through.”

Ginny finished her drink alone in the back room, and headed back to Hogwarts in a thoughtful mood —  or as thoughtful a mood as she could be in after half-a-bottle of Firewater. 

Mindful of the new protocols Harry had insisted on — _no-one goes anywhere alone_ — she stopped at the outskirts of Hogsmeade, raised her wand, and sent up a shower of green sparks.

She didn’t have to wait long before Ron and Harry Apparated in a few feet away. _They must have been waiting at the gate._

“Hello, you,” she said. “Come to take me home side-along and spare me the walk?”

“You’ve been drinking with Aberforth Dumbledore,” Harry said. “I think you probably _need_ the walk.”

“True,” Ginny said. She linked one arm through Harry’s and the other through Ron’s. “But then you’ll have to wait all that time to find out what _I_ found out.”

They turned her around between them and started back towards the school. “How’s Aberforth otherwise?” Harry asked.

“Angry,” Ginny said sadly.

Ron frowned. “At you?”

She shook her head. “No. At the world, maybe. At what happened in the war.” She thought for a moment. “At us.”

“Us?” Harry said. “What have _we_ done to him?”

“Become Aurors and teachers and not gone off to have fun.”

Harry snorted. “That’s a bit rich,” he said. “Since his whole grudge against Albus was that Albus, when he was our age, wanted to go off and have fun and not take care of Ariana. And Albus regretted that his whole life, Aberforth knows that now.”

“I dunno, mate,” Ron said. “It makes a sort of sense to me. It ruined all three of them, in different ways, didn’t it? Two kids and one young bloke, left to fend for themselves, to be responsible when the brothers weren’t ready and Ariana wasn’t able.”

“So?” Ginny said.

Ron shrugged, and then steadied Ginny when the movement put her off balance. “So remember — oh, Ginny you weren’t there — when we came back to Hogwarts that last time, he was hopping mad at Albus for putting it on Harry to take on Voldy. Said it wasn’t fair, said Harry was too young.”

“It wasn’t Albus who put it on me,” Harry said. “It was just how it was.”

“ _I_ know that,” Ron said. “But old Aberforth — he didn’t like it at all.”

“He said tonight that …” Ginny caught herself. “That if _someone_ were needing help, they could ask the older professors or the Ministry or the Order, and leave us out of it.”

Ron nodded. “It’s the same, isn’t it? The same argument. Young people shouldn’t have to be responsible.”

“Like Albus had to be responsible,” Harry said slowly, and then, “Ginny. _Someone_ … you didn’t tell him, did you?”

“He knew,” Ginny said. “Didn’t say a name, or anything, but he knew.”

They reached the gates, which opened for them. “Did he say anything useful? Like who else might know?”

Ginny shook her head. “He talked about not having friends.”

“Well, he shouldn’t be such a grumpy old bastard,” Ron said.

“Not Aberforth. The other one.” Ginny squinted, bringing the memory back into focus. “That he didn’t have a talent for making friends, but he had lots of other talents, and he had power, and that was what was dangerous.”

“I _knew_ that,” Harry said. “It’s still true. He’s still as nasty as he knows how to be.”

  “I dunno,” Ginny said. “He seemed to think he’d told me something important.” They reached the castle and headed through the corridors towards Gryffindor Tower. She yawned. “I’ll think about it in the morning.”

At her door, Ron took a small vial from his pocket and put it in her hand. “Here,” he said. “It’s my very last Hangover Begone.”

“Oh, Ron.” Ginny threw her arms around him. “You’re my favourite brother, after Charlie and Bill and George.”

“Thanks very much,” Ron said. “And you’re my favourite sister, after Hermione.”

Ginny swatted his shoulder, unlocked her door, stumbled to her bed and fell face down and immediately asleep. 

In the morning, she gulped down the contents of the vial gratefully and lay with her head under her pillow until she could feel the Hangover Begone begin to work. A shower and a substantial breakfast completed the repairs, and she felt positively bright and cheerful as she made her way over to the Hospital Wing for her daily appointment with Madam Pomfrey.

“How has it been feeling?” the matron asked as she briskly rubbed salve into Ginny’s shoulder.

“Ever so much better,” Ginny said truthfully. In fact, she wouldn’t have known the shoulder had ever been wrenched from how it felt. _However_ _…_ Less truthfully, she flexed her arm as she pulled her shirt back on and pretended to wince. “It will be fine soon, I’m sure of it.”

“Well, just because it _feels_ alright doesn’t mean you’re fully fit,” Poppy Pomfrey said. “You’ll need to come in every day for, oh, at _least_ the next two weeks.”

Ginny met the matron’s gaze, which was wide and innocent. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I think that’s probably wise. Perhaps longer.”

Madam Pomfrey patted her on the shoulder. “As long as you need to be here, Miss Weasley. Oh, I’m sorry, I should call you Madam Weasley now, shouldn’t I? Since you’re on staff, if sadly only temporarily.”

“You could call me Ginny,” Ginny suggested.

“And you could call me Poppy,” the matron said and they smiled at each other.

“Poppy,” Ginny said carefully. “You know, being back here … it’s made me think again, about everything that happened.”

Poppy Pomfrey sat down on the bed beside Ginny. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Do you need something to help you sleep?”

Ginny shook her head. “No, I don’t mean … not like that. Just … wondering about things, things I didn’t know at the time, and still don’t really. Like …” She took a deep breath. “Like about Professor Snape. Did you — did any of you — suspect he wasn’t really on Voldemort’s side?”

“I’m ashamed to say, we didn’t,” Poppy said sadly.

“I suppose …” _He didn_ _’t have friends … He never had the talent for it …_ Aberforth had thought that was important to tell her. “I suppose he wasn’t close to anyone, was he? Not friends. Apart from Professor Dumbledore. So how would anyone guess?”

 The matron frowned a little. “Whatever gave you that idea? Severus has never been an easy person — I should say, _never was_ an easy person — but he was a colleague for sixteen years, and a trusted one.”

“Yes, but he was so …” Ginny’s voice trailed off as she remembered Potions classes. _Unpleasant. Unlikeable. Rude. Cruel._

“Sharp-tongued?” Poppy suggested with a small smile. “Yes, he certainly was. But you’ll learn, dear, that you can get along with just about anyone if you learn to make certain allowances, and to appreciate their good qualities. Even in his first years here, when he was so … well, I remembered him and Lily, you see, so I understood why. But even then, if there was trouble, if a student was in danger, he was always there, often first.” She gave an amused chuckle. “Oh, you probably think that the Weasleys _invented_ students getting into trouble and danger, but I promise you that’s not the case.”

“So the other teachers … _liked_ Professor Snape? Were friends with him?” Ginny asked, trying hard to imagine it. _Professor Snape, out for a pint with his colleagues. Professor Snape, exchanging Christmas presents. Professor Snape, lending a sympathetic ear_ _…_ Her mind boggled at the mental image.

“Some more than others,” Poppy said. “He and Filius had their disagreements over which of their subjects was more important. And of course all the Heads of Houses wanted _their_ House to win at Quidditch, and the House Cup. But _you_ can be friends with someone even if they don’t cheer for the Harpies, can’t you, dear?”

“Yes, I suppose,” Ginny said absently, mind whirling. _What on earth did Aberforth mean, then?_ “I’m sorry, Poppy, I’ve really got to go and find someone.”

“Of course,” Poppy said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Ginny nodded, and left the Hospital Wing at a fast clip, heading towards the Forbidden Forest.

 


	28. Chapter 28: Ginny Weasley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flying lesson nearly goes wrong

 

 As she hurried down the hill towards Hagrid’s hut, Ginny could see a group of first year students straggling upwards. She was relieved to see none of them sporting bandages or bloodstains.

“That was amazing!” Ginny heard one skinny Hufflepuff enthuse to another. “I didn’t think there were any outside the Modesty Rabnott Snidget Reservation! I never thought I’d see one for myself!” He turned to walk backwards. “Did you see how it just came straight to Hagrid’s hand, like it knew it wouldn’t hurt him?”

“I can’t believe people used to play _Quidditch_ with them,” the slim girl he was talking to said. “How cruel!”

“I can believe it,” another girl, much more sturdily built, said. _That_ _’s Hermione’s student, the one she used for the Polyjuice explanation_. _Maisie something_ _… Wilson? Wilkins!_ “I mean, have you read the Transfiguration textbook? We’ll be turning mice into snuffboxes by the end of the year. No-one would have considered switching to Snitches if the Golden Snidget hadn’t become endangered.”

“Mice into snuffboxes?” the slim girl said with horror. “That’s horrible!”

Their voices faded as they passed her, and Ginny smiled to herself. _If turning mice into snuffboxes bothers her, I wonder what she_ _’ll make of rabbit slippers?_

She continued on down the path, waving when she saw Hagrid and Luna in earnest conversation.

“And I think it’s an excellent idea, Hagrid,” Luna was saying when Ginny came into earshot. “But wouldn’t it be better — more interesting for the students, I mean — to take them on an excursion to somewhere that already _has_ Horklumps? There’s bound to be someone in Hogsmeade, you know.”

“But then the students won’t learn how to care for ‘em, will they?” Hagrid objected.  “No, raise ‘em up from spores, that’s the way.”

Ginny sighed, foreseeing a busy afternoon using Streeler venom and the Knockback jinx to clear the Hogwarts grounds of a runaway infestation of Horklumps in her future. “Hello, you two. Class go well?”

“Not my best,” Hagrid said. “But it didn’t go badly, like.”

“I think the students enjoyed it,” Luna said serenely. “And that’s the important thing, for their first class.”

“Great,” Ginny said. “Listen, Luna, I need a quick word.” She glanced at Hagrid, hating not being able to include their staunch friend and ally, but knowing that Hagrid’s record of keeping secrets wasn’t the greatest. “About _July_.”

“Alright,” Luna said. “Hagrid, Ginny and I have to go and talk about something secret for a while. You don’t mind, do you?”

Hagrid grinned. “Girl talk, is it?”

“Something like that,” Luna agreed, took Ginny’s arm, and drew her away.

_Muffliato_ wasn’t Ginny’s best spell, but she cast it away, and then chose her words with care. “Luna, when you’re looking into _July_ , I wondered if you could keep an eye out for something else.”

“Of course.”

“I was talking to Aberforth last night, and he made a point of telling me that _someone_ had trouble making friends.”

A small wrinkle appeared on Luna’s brow. “I don’t think that’s true, you know. Minerva wouldn’t have been so angry, if they hadn’t been friends in the first place.”

“I asked Poppy Pomfrey and she more or less agreed with you,” Ginny said.

“Then I wonder why Mr Dumbledore would tell you a lie,” Luna said. “That’s interesting, don’t you think? Were you going to ask me to find out what I could about friends, when I was looking into July?”

Ginny nodded. “That’s exactly what I was going to ask you.”

“Certainly,” Luna said. “Although I do wonder what Mr Dumbledore knows, and why he didn’t just tell you directly.” She paused, and added thoughtfully, “And how he knows what he knows, too. That’s an interesting question.”

 “Maybe he has a portrait of his brother, now, as well as of Ariana?” Ginny suggested.

“That’s a nice thought,” Luna said. “And a sad one. To have your only family be paintings.” She looked wistfully into the distance for a moment, and then brightened. “Still, he does have his goats, of course. That must be a great comfort to him.”

 Ginny walked back up the hill, thinking hard. _Was it my imagination, or when Aberforth said_ _‘Let him ask us for help’ … did he sound a tiny bit miffed?_

She didn’t have much time to mull it over — sounds from the Flying Ground told her that Madam Hooch had already started that hour’s lesson. Ginny slipped through the archway and tucked herself into the shadows, watching the first year students telling their brooms _Up!_ with varying degrees of confidence, frustration and trepidation.

Ginny watched for a while. Harry’s feat aside, it wasn’t very likely that any of the first years would end up on the Quidditch teams, but still, it was easy to see the ones with potential. A tall and slender boy from Hufflepuff showed excellent control of his broom and no trouble following Madam Hooch’s instructions. _If he fills out a bit, he might make a Chaser._ Beside him, Maisie Wilkins was deliberately jostled by her neighbour. Without changing expression, she kicked his broom hard while Hooch’s back was turned and sent it careering into the students on the other side.

Ginny grinned to herself as Madam Hooch whirled around and began berating him. _Little Miss Wilkins shows definite potential._

One of the Ravenclaw students was having more difficulty than the others. First he wasn’t able to get his broom to rise to his hand, and then, when it did, he clung to the handle white-knuckled as it rose from the ground.

“Now, just relax, Rowland,” Madam Hooch said briskly. “The broom — I said _relax_ — ease your grip and lean back —”

Rowland was now wrapped around the broomstick like a spider-monkey as it rose higher and higher. He had considerable natural magic, Ginny could guess, and that, combined with his fear of falling and his prone position on the broomstick, was urging the broom to put distance between him and what was currently scaring him.

_Unfortunately, what_ _’s scaring him at the moment is the ground._

She strode forward. “Broom,” she said to the nearest students, holding out her hand. Maisie Wilkins was the quickest to respond, bringing her broom lower and swinging her leg clear as she did so. Ginny grasped the handle and Maisie kicked herself clear and dropped to the ground as Ginny vaulted onto the broom.

It was as neat a manoeuvre as if they’d rehearsed it, but Ginny could spare only an instant of appreciation. Above her, Rowland was rising ever higher and his broom was starting to pick up speed.

She bent low over the handle and shot after him as if he were a Snitch.

His yells of terror whipped back to her in the wind. As she slowly gained on him, Ginny could see that one of his feet had slipped from the footrest and the other was askew. If he lost that purchase, he’d fall in seconds.

“Come _on_ , broom,” she urged, wishing for her own Nimbus and not this staid and ancient besom suited for first year students to learn on. She loosened one hand from the handle and stroked the wood, feeling the roughness that spoke of the inadequate maintenance old learning brooms usually got. “This probably wasn’t where you thought you’d find yourself, is it?” They were above the walls now and heading towards the lake. “But I bet there are some great flyers who learnt on you, right? Seekers and Chasers and racers, too. It’s a huge responsibility, being a learning broom.” Was it her imagination, or had the broom picked up a little speed. “Broom, there’s a student ahead of us who’s about to have a nasty fall — unless we catch him. And then he’ll be scared of flying, maybe his whole life. Which seems like a shame. So, broom — can you give me everything you’ve got?”

For a second or two, nothing happened. Ahead of her, Ginny could see that Rowland had lost his second footrest. She began to rehearse _left hand slides forward — right hand takes out wand — cushioning charm —_

Beneath her, the old learning broom accelerated with a jerk that would have put a top-range racing broom to shame. “Oh, go you good thing!” Ginny cried. She was gaining on Rowland, she was next to the bristles of his broom —

She was alongside him. Relying on her legs, her balance, and her broom, Ginny leaned over and grabbed Rowland’s arm with one hand and his broom with the other.

“Help!” he squeaked.

“Helping,” Ginny pointed out tersely, thinking through her options. She could drag him over to her own broom … “Now, listen — what’s your name?”

“Michael!”

“Michael. Mike. Or Mick?”

“Mike.”

“Okay, Mike.” They were well over the lake now, although Rowland’s broom had slowed down considerably with Ginny’s touch and her own had matched its pace. “Mike, I need you to reach back with your right foot and find the footrest.”

“Can’t,” he whimpered, gaze fixed on the shining waters beneath them.

“Don’t look down. Mike, listen to me. Don’t look down. Lift your chin, look straight ahead.” She waited until he gulped and followed her instructions. “Good. Now reach back with your right foot and find the footrest. That’s it. Now the same with your left. Good. Good. Now I need you to sit up. Up straight, like in a chair.”

He shivered, but made an effort, and managed to get nearly a foot of distance between his chest and the broom-handle. In response, his broom slowed further.

“Good,” Ginny said again. “When you lean forward and hold on tightly, the broom accelerates. When you sit back, and loosen your grip, the broom slows down, and goes lower. Sit up more, and you’ll see.”

He managed to sit up a little more, and the broom slowed further. He turned to stare at her. “It works!”

Ginny bit back a comment that would have confirmed her unsuitability for teaching for all time. “Now, we’re going to turn,” she said instead. “Lean to your right, just a little — it’s alright, I’ve got you — that’s right —”

It took a lot of patient talking, but eventually Ginny got them turned around through a wide loop and headed back towards the school. As they got closer, though, Rowland’s broom slowed almost to a stop.  Ginny glanced at him, and saw his face white and set. “What is it?”

“Am I going to be expelled?”

“No,” Ginny assured him.

He gulped. “How can you be sure?”

Ginny grinned at him. “Well. Let’s just say you’re not the first student in the history of Hogwarts to fly further and faster than they were supposed to. Now. Stopping is actually the trickiest bit. We’re going to fly in right down to the ground, and then sit back hard and loosen our grip on the brooms, alright?”

The upturned faces of the rest of the class grew closer, and closer. Rowland looked down at them and let out a whimper.

“Chin up, look ahead, Mike. Now … three, two, one — sit back!”

He managed to sit back, but not to loosen his grip, and for a moment the broom bucked, confused by his conflicting instructions, until Madam Hooch snapped from the ground, “Hands _off_ the broom, Rowland!”

He let go. The broom stopped. Ginny hauled him off and Madam Hooch caught him and let him down the rest of the way to the ground.

“That was _brilliant_ ,” a skinny Hufflepuff boy said.

Ginny vaulted off her broom and handed it back to Wilkins. “Give it a good polish,” she said. “It’s earned it.”

“Do you need to go to the Hospital Wing?” Hooch asked Rowland.

He shook his head. “No, Madam Hooch.”

“Do you think you can go on with the class?”

He nodded.

She clapped him on the shoulder. “Good lad. Right, everybody — as you’ve just seen, braking is the most important thing you can learn, so, leaving your brooms on the ground, practice the position. Weight on your heels, knees bent, leaning backwards — ”

When the class was over, Ginny waited as the students filed out. “Miss Wilkins?”

The girl came over, carrying her broom. “Yes, Madam Weasley?”

“What you did back there — if Madam Hooch had seen it, you’d have detention.”

Guileless blue eyes looked up at her. “You mean when I lost my balance and my foot slipped?”

Ginny chuckled. “Yes, then. I noticed it was the _only_ time you lost your balance. Have you flown before?”

Maisie nodded. “For ages. My mum isn’t very good but Dad was on the team here and he’s still mad for Quidditch.”

“So you’ve played? Which position?”

“Not really _played_ ,” the girl said. “Just with Mum and Dad and their friends. We almost never had enough for a proper game, but when we had enough, I was always a Beater.”

Ginny eyed her. “You’re a bit small for it, aren’t you? Weren’t they worried you’d get hurt?”

The small, firm jaw set. “Toss up a Bludger and see.”

“I might do that,” Ginny said. “If you come to coaching this evening.”

 She sent the girl to join her friends, and waited for Rolanda Hooch.

“Hello, Ginny,” the Flying instructor said cheerfully. “What did you think of them? Apart from Rowland, who’ll either be a Seeker or a disaster.”

“It might not be aptitude,” Ginny said, falling into step beside her. “Rowland, I mean. It could just be very strong magic.”

Madam Hooch nodded. “I’ve seen that. Longbottom took off like a rocket, the first time he was astride a broom. Nothing to do with being a natural flyer — just raw magical talent, although it took a while for it to show itself properly. And apart from him?”

“A couple of the Hufflepuffs show potential,” Ginny said.

“Wilkins and Smythe? Yes, I thought so. Give them a year or two and they’ll be trying out for the team. I don’t suppose you’ll be coaching any Firsts, though.”

Ginny shrugged as they passed through the archway and into the courtyard. “I’ll take anyone who turns up, so long as they’re safe on a broom. Don’t worry, I won’t put the little ones up against the real players, but if they want to learn?” She shrugged again.

Madam Hooch laughed. “Careful. You’ll be over-run, if you don’t set some limits. You should see the number of Holyhead Harpies posters in the Gryffindor dorms.”

“How are you finding being Head of Gryffindor?”

“A jolly sight easier than Minerva found it, when she had you lot to deal with!” Madam Hooch’s yellow eyes flashed with amusement. “You led her quite a merry dance, at times! The nuisance is, I can’t referee any more — too much potential for ‘perceived bias’, Minerva says, but _I_ think she just enjoys doing it herself. She was quite the player, in her day.”

“Do you mind? Not refereeing?”

Rolanda shrugged. “A bit. But it’s worth it to see Minerva’s sour expression every time she’s forced to be fair to Slytherin.”

Ginny grinned. “Who won the Cup last year? With Minerva McGonagall refereeing, it was Gryffindor, right?”

“It was Ravenclaw, of all things!” Madam Hooch shook her head. “Sometimes I think that Hat is losing its touch. There have been some fine athletes Sorted into Ravenclaw, I had a Hufflepuff last year who could argue all four legs off a Niffler and _then_ persuade it to part with its gold, and Slytherin has a Third year — Fourth year now, I suppose — Keeper who _literally_ threw herself off her broomstick to stop the Quaffle. If Filius hadn’t been so quick with his wand, she would have broken her neck, and that’s a very nasty week in the Hospital Wing, I can tell you from personal experience.”

“Maybe the Hat is making a point,” Ginny suggested, remembering the conversation and and Harry had had with Ron through the Floo. “That just because a House values one sort of characteristic, doesn’t mean the people in it don’t have others.”

They’d reached the edge of the courtyard, and Madam Hooch paused, looking out over the valley, golden and green in the summer morning. “I still expect to see him down there by the lake, sometimes,” she said uncharacteristically softly.

“Professor Dumbledore?” Ginny asked.

The Flying instructor shook her head. “Severus. He used to walk down there, at night. Gathering potions ingredients, or he just couldn’t sleep, or both. More often than not I’d see him when I was out blowing the cobwebs off my broom before breakfast. Usually by himself, sometimes with Pomona.”

Ginny took the opportunity. “Did you know him well?”

Madam Hooch gave a short laugh. “It turned out none of us did, did we? I taught him to fly — on a broom, that is, not that flitting about he learnt to do later. He had a terrible time of it, couldn’t stand heights, you get that sometimes. But he stuck to it, gritted his teeth, never got terribly good but he wasn’t going to let it beat him.” She stroked her broom absently. “Never had a feel for it, though. Even when he came back to teach, you’d never see him on a broomstick unless he didn’t have a choice. Certainly never one to fly for fun.”

“I can’t really imagine that he was,” Ginny said. “So you weren’t particularly friends?”

“No, he had more to talk about with Pomona, and Poppy of course, what with brewing the potions and salves for the Hospital Wing. He used to play checkers with Filius, in the staffroom, but once that rotter Voldemort came back he stopped. No time, I daresay.” She paused. “And Charity, of course. Poor Charity. She had some mad idea about improving potion brewing using Muggle technology, always going on about it.”

“Professor Snape must have hated that,” Ginny said. _I can just imagine the look on his face — the exact same one he used when someone added a Billywig sting instead of Billywig sting_ slime _, probably._

Madam Hooch smiled. “You know, I think it amused him, more than anything. He would sit there, marking essays, to all appearances completely ignoring her, and then raise an eyebrow and completely demolish her argument in one or two sentences. And then she’d laugh and say she needed to do more research, and he’d recommend a book.” She shook her head. “And Charity would read it, and they’d start all over again. They kept at it, right up until — well.”

Ginny shivered a little, despite the warm sunlight, remembering the brief account Lucius Malfoy had given of Charity Burbage’s death. _The Dark Lord used the killing curse, and then fed her to his snake._ “Poor Professor Burbage,” she said softly.

“Poor all of them,” Madam Hooch said brusquely. “That was a good day’s work Potter did.” She swung her leg over her broom. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Ginny, I think I’ll take advantage of the good weather while it lasts.”

Ginny watched as the Flying instructor rose in the air, leaned forward, and then shot through the archway as if shot from a cannon. She longed to follow her example, to let speed and wind blow away the shadows that had crept out of the past and wound around her.

_But I_ _’m on staff here, and have to be responsible, and the Headmistress is expecting me in …_ Ginny checked her watch. _Fifteen minutes._

She tapped her toe, thinking, and then grinned. _Once around the castle won_ _’t hurt._

Pointing her wand, she cried, “ _Accio_ Ginny’s Nimbus!”

 

 


	29. Chapter 29: Colin Aitkins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What could possibly go wrong?

 

 

Colin Aitkins was having his favourite dream: the one where he received his Hogwarts letter seven years early, because he was so brilliant, and so found himself a student at the time of the Battle of Hogwarts. Somehow, defying basic logic and physiology, he was already eleven years old and not four, and, defying the instructions for the younger students to evacuate, he grabbed the Sword of Gryffindor after Neville Longbottom dropped it and —

“Psst!”

— swung it in a great arc, taking off the head of Voldemort’s snake, causing the evil sorcerer to drop dead before Harry Potter could even cast a spell —

“Colin, wake up!” Maisie hissed.

For one more moment, he managed to cling to the dream, until Maisie pinched his arm, hard.

“What?” he said grumpily.

“Shhh!”

Colin opened his eyes to darkness. Around him, he could hear the steady breathing of his roommates. “What _time_ is it?” he whispered.

“Late,” Maisie whispered back. “Get up. I need to talk to you.”

Faint rustling told him she had made her way back to the staircase.

For a moment he considered rolling over and going back to sleep, but if there was one thing he’d learnt about Maisie Wilkins in the past days, it was that she didn’t give up easily. _If I go back to sleep, she_ _’ll be back up here in ten minutes._

_Probably with a bucket of cold water._

He threw back the covers, shoved his feet into his slippers, and grumbled his way down to the Hufflepuff common room.

He was a bit mollified by the fact that Maisie had procured chocolate frogs and a bag of  Bertie Bott's Every-Flavour Beans. “What do you want?”

She offered him a frog. “What do you know about brooms?”

He unwrapped the frog and caught it on its first hop. “They fly.”

“About taking care of them,” she clarified.

Colin shrugged. “You polish them, right? And there’s something with the bristles. You woke me up to ask me about broom care?”

Maisie looked away from him, gaze on the fire in the hearth. “Madam Weasley told me to give my broom — the one I was using, anyway — a good polish. I mean, I could order handle polish from a catalogue, but — that commercial stuff, real fliers never use it, they make their own.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” Colin ate the frog’s hind legs and dug the card out of the box. “Because all the catalogues, they have the big Quidditch players saying ‘Madam Mimms polish is the _only_ one _I_ trust’ and stuff. Drat, Ron Weasley again.”

“Swap you.” Maisie offered her own chocolate frog card. “I got his mum.”

“Thanks! I haven’t got a Molly yet.”

“Anyway, the catalogues, that’s just branding.” Maisie as they exchanged cards. “It doesn’t mean they really use it. I bet Madam Weasley wouldn’t _ever_ use something just from a shop or a catalogue.”

“So?” Colin ate the frog’s head and studied the Every-Flavour Beans. In the firelight, it was hard to tell the difference between mint and lime. He took a chance. “Madam Weasley probably just meant for you to use the stuff in the broom shed.”

“She let me come to her coaching, Colin,” Maisie said. “Even though almost all the other students there are at least fourth year. I have to show her that I know about flying, and brooms.”

“Well, alright, but I don’t see how — eww.” He pulled a face. “Brussels sprout flavour.”

“First, we need to get a recipe, don’t you see?” Maisie picked a red bean and popped it in her mouth. She gave him a smug smile. “Strawberry.”

“There’ll be a recipe somewhere in the Library,” Colin said, getting interested in the idea despite himself. “Probably lots of them. Maybe ones that have been lost and forgotten about.” _And for recovering the lost broom-handle polish recipe used by Merlin himself, Colin Aitkins, Order of Merlin Second Class._  Reality rudely intervened. “But that doesn’t help much. I mean, unless the ingredients are something we can pick from the gardens, the recipe is just a recipe.”

“There’s heaps of stuff in the Potions storeroom,” Maisie said matter-of-factly.

Colin stared at her. “That’s completely mad,” he said at last. “That’s absolutely certifiable, that is. Stealing from Professor Granger’s storeroom? Do you know what she’d _do_ to you?”

Maisie shrugged. “Probably detention.”

“Or turn you into a toad!”

“No, teachers aren’t allowed to use Transfiguration as a punishment, I looked it up. They can give detention, take House points, and set lines and essays.” Maisie ticked each point off on her fingers. “Only the Headmistress can expel us, and they can’t cause us permanent physical harm, either.”

“And you just happened to look that up?”

“Of course I looked it up,” Maisie said, speaking slowly and clearly as if to a child or a simpleton. “If you don’t know what they’re going to do to you, you don’t know whether it’s worth breaking a rule or not.”

“We’ve already been in trouble — we were lucky not to lose any House points, you know. Lisa Ayersley said that Professor Granger usually takes _fifty_ points for students in the corridors after lights out.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Maisie said dismissively. “She might say she will, but she wouldn’t. I looked her up, and a month ago she was working as a researcher.”

“So?”

Maisie grinned. “So, new teachers are easy to get around. We’re in luck there are so many this year. Just cry a bit and look remorseful.”

Colin snorted. “You, crying? Don’t make me laugh.”

“Yes, that’s why _you_ _’ll_ be the one filching what we need.”

“No way!” Colin shook his head. “Besides. Let’s say we find a recipe, and you manage to steal the ingredients. Professor Granger would notice you brewing up handle polish when you were supposed to be making Pepper-Up or something.”

Maisie nodded. “We’d have to do it somewhere else. I haven’t worked out where yet.”

“So this is all theoretical, really,” Colin said, relieved.

“Sure,” Maisie said. She smiled. “If it makes you feel better. So will you help me look for a recipe? We can go to the Library after class tomorrow, there’s no coaching until Saturday.”

Colin sighed. “Fine. Now can I go back to bed?”

“If you like. I’ve got to keep thinking about where we can make the polish, once we know how. Do you think there’s a list of all the rooms in the school somewhere?”

“A handy guide for students on the best ways to break the rules?” Colin got to his feet. “No, Maisie, I really don’t think there’s a list of all the rooms anywhere _we_ could get at it.”

“Mmmm,” she said, gazing into the fire.

Colin left her to it, but once he’d crawled back into bed he found himself tossing and turning.  _There_ _’s no way to get into the Potions storeroom without someone seeing. Even if Professor Granger doesn’t notice, one of the other students will … is there a way to make sure they don’t tell her?_

He couldn’t think of one, rolled over and punched his pillow. _Then I need to make sure there_ _’s a reason for me to go in there …_

Appalled, he opened his eyes and stared up at the canopy over his bed. _What_ _’s wrong with me? I’m thinking of ways to get away with breaking the rules! I should be thinking of ways to talk Maisie out of it._

The thought made him grin. _Talk Maisie Wilkins out of anything, that_ _’s a good one._

_Maybe I should tell Professor Granger what she_ _’s planning. After all, she_ did _make me promise to come to her before I did anything_ _…_

_She meant anything dangerous,_ Colin argued back at himself. _This is just broom handle polish._

_What can go wrong with that?_

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the books, chocolate frogs don’t jump, so I’ve gone with the film. Also, Ron having a chocolate frog card is canon-ish, from something JK Rowling said in an interview, but Molly having one isn’t.


	30. Chapter 30: Luna Lovegood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luna Lovegood, in the Library, with a newspaper.

 

“Someone’s coming!” a boy hissed, and Luna heard the scuffling sound of books behind hastily hidden under scrolls of parchment on the other side of the bookshelf.

 _Now I wonder what would be the right thing to do here?_ Luna stood where she was, idly toying with one of the forks wound into her necklace as she considered it. _They_ _’re obviously hiding what they’re up to, which probably means they shouldn’t be doing it. But then, some things that people shouldn’t be doing are actually things they need to be doing, aren’t they?_

 _Telling the difference, that_ _’s the trick._

She stepped around the end of the bookshelf and gave the three students there a friendly smile. “Hello there. Colin, isn’t it? And Mike and … Maisie?”

They nodded. “Hello, Professor Lovegood,” Maisie said.

“I’m not a Professor,” Luna said. “So you don’t need to call me that. What’s that you’re reading?”

Maisie looked down at her parchment. “A History of the Wizarding Economy: From Soap to Strike.”

“I remember that! It was one of my favourites.” Luna sat down at the end of the table. “Completely wrong, of course. The blizzard was actually in 1373, and it was soup, not soap. But I meant, what are you actually reading, not what are you pretending to be reading.”

“It’s not from the Restricted Section,” Colin said quickly.

“Then why are you hiding it?” Luna asked. “If it’s a catalogue from Weasleys’ Wizard  Wheezes, I should warn you, everything in there is strictly forbidden on school grounds.”

“It isn’t anything to do with practical jokes,” Maisie said. She glanced at the other two children, gave a small shrug, and drew a book out from under her homework. “It’s about broom care, that’s all.”

Luna took the book. She flipped through it to be sure it wasn’t one book wearing the cover of another, but all the illustrations were of brooms, all right. “It’s very commendable of you to want to take good care of your brooms,” she said, “but I’m still puzzled about why you need to keep it secret.’

“Not _secret_ ,” Colin said. “Just private.” He gave her a pleading look, eyes almost welling with tears.

“That’s very good,” Luna said approvingly. “I don’t recommend trying it on the Headmistress, though.” She paused, thinking. “Or me, for that matter. I suppose you’re all trying to impress Ginny with how much you know?” Ducked heads and blushes told her she was on the right track. “Well, I’ll be just down there.” She pointed to the newspaper section. “If you have any questions. And don’t pay any attention to anything written by Amortensia Eaglewick. Never take broom care advice from someone who blew up midair.”

“I thought …” Mike said, “that she only died three years ago. And she was ancient.”

“Oh, no, she blew up quite a long time ago,” Luna assured him. “All they found was her hat and a few bristles. You’re thinking of her twin sister, who was also called Amortensia.” She paused. “Which must have been quite confusing for their parents, when you think about it.” 

She left them contemplating that, and settled herself at the big reading table by the shelves of back-issues of _The Prophet_ and _The Quibbler._ Although _The Prophet_ was full of rubbish, of course, a practised eye like Luna’s could often discern the truth beneath the cover-ups, and there were always odd bits of information that crept in because the paper’s publishers didn’t understand their meaning.

 _Like this one_. Luna studied the story from July four years ago. _Minerva McGonagall in Ministry Melee!_ the headline screamed, above a picture of the Hogwarts Headmistress sweeping through the Ministry of Magic’s main entrance. _Called on the carpet by Kingsley_ was the caption, and all the way down in the second-last paragraph, the author admitted that the Ministry had announced that Professor McGonagall had been there to finalise her certification as a Quidditch referee for matches played at Hogwarts.

 _Quite a clever cover story_. Of course, it wasn’t true. Luna could clearly see, in the corner of the frame, the distinctive profile of Percy Weasley. _The Department of Magical Transportation._ It was completely obvious to any intelligent reader that Professor McGonagall had been at the Ministry to consult with them on the Tutshill Tornadoes’ use of bewitched brooms.

 _Which is interesting, but probably not anything to do with Professor Snape._ She reached for the next edition.

 _Snape_ _’s Secret Son?_ this one asked in font that took up almost the whole front page, with a photograph of Severus Snape that looked very much as if it had been taken at a Hogwarts Quidditch match. _And one that was held quite some years ago, from the looks of him._ The picture had been cropped so tightly that the people around him couldn’t be seen, just Snape staring haughtily off into the distance. He turned slightly, shoulder jostling the frame, said something inaudible —

That was all there was on the loop. Luna turned to page five and found the story, which was far shorter than the headline seemed to indicate it should be, and illustrated with another copy of the same picture used on the front page. _Severus Snape, the spy whose loyalties have never been satisfactorily determined, may have one more secret than anyone knew. In a small house only fifty miles from his home in Spinner_ _’s End, a young Muggle woman has a strange story. ‘I don’t know who he was, or what exactly happened …’_

Luna read to the end, snorting to herself occasionally. _As if Professor Snape had time, in between being Headmaster of Hogwarts, Voldemort_ _’s supposed right-hand man, and a double agent, to build a flying saucer and abduct women._ There was a blurry photo of what was claimed to be ‘the love child of the Wizarding world’s most famous love-lorn spy’ but to Luna, the baby looked more like the love child of Cornelius Fudge.

“Excuse me?” a small voice said from behind her.

Luna closed the newspaper and turned to see Colin, clutching a book. “Hello again,” she said with a friendly smile.

“I wanted to ask — in this book there’s a recipe  —”

“That sounds like a Hermione sort of question,” Luna said, and when he looked blank, “Professor Granger. You know? She teaches you Potions?”

“I wondered if it really was a potion, that’s all.” Colin opened the book and put it down on the table. “See, it says ‘every dedicated flyer should whip up a batch for their broom-shed’. So I wondered, is it really a potion if everyone can brew it? I’d hate to bother Professor Granger with something small like that.”

Reflecting that Hermione certainly had enough on her hands, what with pretending to update _Hogwarts: A History_ — and being Hermione, she’d been unable to just _pretend_ and was now frantically drafting a new chapter — as well as her teaching and spending hours brewing something-or-other in her laboratory, Luna studied the page Colin indicated. “Rat tails and dragonfly thoraxes … those are potion ingredients. But it says here it’s an infusion, and there’s no heat, which isn’t like a potion at all.” She turned her attention back to Colin. “Are you planning to make this? Is that why you want to know?”

“It would be against the rules to brew a potion outside class,” Colin said.

“So, yes, you mean,” Luna said. She studied the recipe again. _It_ _’s almost the same as Hair Raising Tonic, but without heat, it won’t reach the activation stage …_ “I don’t think it will work, you know, but I don’t see any problem with you trying it. Make sure you get permission from your parents to order the ingredients, though, or they’ll be confiscated before they reach you.”

“Thank you!” Colin said breathlessly, and snatched the book back. As he did so, his gaze fell on the newspaper in front of Luna, and his mouth dropped open. “Is that true?”

Luna looked back at the headline. “I highly doubt it,” she said mildly. “You mustn’t believe what you read in the newspapers, Colin — unless it’s in _The Quibbler_ , of course.”

He was still gazing at the front page. “Is that Severus Snape? You knew him, right? You were here when he was?”

“It is Professor Snape,” Luna said. “And yes, I was here when he was, but I didn’t know him, really. He was my teacher.”

“I thought he was older,” Colin said, pouring over the picture. “He looks like he could be a student.” He paused. “A not-very-nice student.”

“I don’t think anybody ever described Professor Snape as ‘nice’,” Luna said. “But nice is overrated, you know. I mean, you should try to be a nice person of course. That’s important. But people can do good things even if they’re not very likable. And some people can’t help not being very likable.”

“Was Professor Snape not very likable?”

“He probably saved my life, so I like him quite a lot,” Luna said. She looked back at the picture, tapping it with one finger to see if she could get the person sitting next to Snape to lean into frame. “He does look very young, doesn’t he? He started teaching here a long time ago, you know. This picture was probably taken then.” She remembered that Colin had only been at Hogwarts a matter of days. “It’s a Quidditch match, I think. You can’t see much of the background, but there, behind him, it looks very much like the stands the staff sit in.” 

“Who is he talking to?”

“I don’t know,” Luna said. “One of the other teachers, probably. Or a member of the Board of Governors, they sit in the same stands.”

“I wish we could hear the joke,” Colin said.

Luna turned to look at him. “The joke?”

He nodded. “I’d like to know what sort of jokes war-heroes make, even ones that aren’t very nice.”

Luna looked back at the picture. Professor Snape looked into the distance, his expression so supercilious it could have been a parody of himself. The shoulder of the person next to him was briefly visible, nudging him, and he turned, said something —

“I suppose it might be a joke, at that,” Luna said thoughtfully.  “I’ll tell you what, Colin, if I ever find out, I’ll let you know.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luna’s theory about the Tutshill Tornadoes is canon; her other conspiracy theories in this chapter are made up by me out of whole cloth.  
> Thanks for reading this far! Don’t forget to leave a note (concrit welcome!)


	31. Chapter 31: Harry Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry teaches Defence Against The Dark Arts

 

Harry looked at his students and thirty wide-eyed eleven-year-olds looked back. This would be the first time they’d seen the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom with the desks and chairs stacks against the wall — the first time they’d seen it set up for a practical, rather than a theoretical, lesson.

“So far, you’ve been learning general theory,” Harry said. “Today, we’re going to start on the practical aspects of defending yourself against the Dark Arts. Protego is one of the most important spells you’ll ever learn in your life. It, and its variations, have saved my life more times than I can count.” The students stared at him with rapt attention. “Its strength, and its ability to repel hostile jinxes cast against you, is entirely dependent on how good you are at casting it. And, of course, no magical shield will do you any good if you don’t get it cast in time.”

Colin Aitkins raised his hand. “Yes, Aitkins?”

“Sir, what are the variations?” the boy asked.

“Good question. Does anyone know any of the other shield charms?”

After a moment, one of the girls from Ravenclaw said, “Protego Totalum. Mum uses it on the house.”

Harry nodded. “Five points. You can use Protego Totalum to protect a place for a long period of time. Anyone else?” He paused, but no more hands went up. “There’s also Protego Duo, which will protect you against physical attacks as well as magical ones, Protego Horribilis, which protects against certain kinds of Dark magic, and Protego Maxima, which is the strongest of them all. But for now, we’re just going to work on good old simple Protego. Think about the person you want to protect, which will be you for now. Wands like _this_ , move it like _so_ , and _Protego!_ ”

“Protego!” they chorused, largely ineffectively. Here and there Harry could see faint traces of embryonic shields, quickly dissipating.

He moved throughout the classroom, correcting wand movements and pronunciation. _Maybe this was a bit ambitious. I had trouble getting the hang of it when I first learnt it, and I was four years older than this lot are._ “Wilkins, it’s more of a forward movement than that. Rowland, you’ve nearly got it — concentrate as hard as you can on  the idea of protecting yourself.”

Just when Harry was about to accept that he would have to halt the lesson and admit frankly that he’d made a mistake in trying to teach them a spell more suited to fourth year students, a flicker of light caught his eye. Turning, he saw Michael Rowland fully surrounded by his magical shield. It was a weak one, already fading, but it was complete.

“Well done, Rowland! Give it another go.”

The other students fell silent, turning to watch.

“Protego!” Rowland tried, and then again, “Protego!” The shield flickered into evidence again.

“What did you do?” Harry asked him.

Rowland stared at him. “The spell.”

Harry grinned. “I know. I meant, what did you do that made it work, that time?”

“Oh.” The young Ravenclaw frowned in thought. “I was imagining that someone was about to hex me.”

“Anyone in particular?” Harry asked.

“My sister,” Rowland said. He gave a wry grin. “She’s really fond of the Jelly-Legs jinx.”

“Rylla Rowland?” Harry asked, and the boy nodded. “Do you think you could have done it without thinking about that?”

“Not really,” Rowland said. “Is that … is that wrong?”

“Not at all,” Harry assured him. “It’s just something I should have taken into account when I was planning my class.” He turned to include the other students. “Right, hands up anyone who’s never been jinxed or hexed or otherwise magically harassed.” Only four hands went up. “You four, over here with me. The rest of you, keep practising, and do what Rowland did, imagine someone is about to cast something at you and you want to protect yourself from it.” 

Harry gathered the four students who’d never been the target of a spell together at the far end of the classroom.

“Are you going to hex us, sir?” one asked.

He gave them his best reassuring smile. “Now, what kind of teacher would I be if I went around attacking students? Am I right in thinking the four of you come from Muggle families?”

He got four nods in answer. _Of course. Even without older siblings flinging Flying Bat Bogie hexes when they_ _’re in a temper, there wouldn’t be a wizard or witch alive from a magical family who hadn’t been on the receiving end of a_ Silencio _or a_ Quietus _at least by a frazzled parent._

“What have you done in charms so far?”

“Levitation,” the girl who’d asked if Harry was going to hex them said. “And Dancing Feet.”

“Dancing Feet it is, then,” Harry said. “Pair up, face each other, wands out. And _cast_.”

“Tarantallegra!” four voices chorused, and the next instant, four pairs of feet were dancing uncontrollably.

“Finite!” Harry said almost immediately, and freed them from the spell. “Right. Now you know what it’s like to be attacked by magic. Off you go and —”

“That wasn’t being _attacked_ ,” the girl said. “That’s just a charm!”

“A charm that the Death Eater Dolohov cast on Professor Longbottom in the middle of a duel,” Harry said. “And he didn’t do it for lack of other options, let me tell you. Any spell or charm can be used offensively, in the right circumstances. Professor Weasley once knocked out a troll with a timely _Wingardium Leviosa_ , for example. So go work on your Protego, imagining that you’re trying to stop someone casting Dancing Feet on you — and casting it where there isn’t a teacher standing by to stop it straight away.”

Chastened, the girl led the others back to join the group practising casting their shields. Harry was pleased to see that more than one of them had got the hang of it now, and those who were still struggling were producing stronger efforts than before.

He kept them at it for another half-an-hour before calling a halt, remembering how exhausting his own attempts to master it had been, at first. A wave of his wand brought the chairs and desks back from the side of the room and into neat rows.

“Take your seats,” he said, and perched on the edge of his own desk as they did so. “Right. Now there’s something I want to say to you all and it’s really important. You all know that using offensive magic against other students is strictly forbidden at Hogwarts, but _I_ know that there’s always someone who thinks it’s clever, and I also know that your instincts are going to be to try and deal with it yourselves. Get a bit of your own back.” He folded his arms, thinking through what he needed to get across to them. “The problem with that is, then the other person wants to get _their_ own back too. I knew someone —” _Better not to say it was my dad and the not-quite-as-dead-as-we-thought Severus Snape_. “— someone who was a student at this school who did exactly that, and it turned into a really serious feud that ended up with some people making very bad decisions.” Thirty wide pairs of eyes stared at him solemnly. “Protego, and another spell I’m going to teach you later in the year, means you can protect yourselves — and other people — against anyone who thinks that Tickling Charms or Bat Bogey Hexes are a good idea. But the only place for you to use offensive spells or charms are in the classroom, or in the duelling club.” 

Thirty grave nods, although Harry had his doubts about how thoroughly the message had sunk in with some of them.  

“If you’re ever tempted,” he said, “I want you to remember this class — remember, not just how to cast Protego, but also how it felt in that memory you used to feel like you needed to protect yourself. Making someone else feel like that, even if it’s with a minor charm, is a bit cruel, and when you’re cruel you open yourself up to worse things. Why is this class called Defence Against the Dark Arts?”

The sudden question threw them off balance, and it was a whole three seconds before Colin Aitkins raised his hand. Harry nodded, and the boy said, “Because it teaches us to protect ourselves from Dark magic and Dark creatures.”

“And what makes them Dark?” Harry asked.

Rowland’s hand went up. “They’re evil,” he said.

Harry grinned. “Well, yes, they are, but that’s not what I’m getting at. What makes them evil?”

A different hand went up: Maisie Wilkins, who rarely talked in class but watched everything with calm interest. “You’re trying to make us think that casting a Jelly-Legs Jinx on someone we don’t like is the first step to becoming Voldemort. I don’t think that’s true, really.”

 “And you’re an expert on old Tom Riddle, are you?” Harry asked.

Maisie flushed slightly. “No. But I’m an expert on _me_. I cast a Bat Bogey Hex on my brother in August, and I’m pretty sure I’m not significantly evil.”

“Why did you hex him?” Harry asked.

“He had it coming,” Maisie said flatly.

Harry had to suppress a smile. “But why did he have it coming?”

“He Transfigured my owl into penguin and wouldn’t turn her back.”

The entire class burst out laughing, and Harry let himself join them. “I suspect he did have it coming, at that,” he said. “You were angry with him, when you cast the hex?” Maisie gave a single, decisive nod. “We all get angry, and when we’re angry sometimes we do things we don’t really mean. A lot of what you’ll learn over the next seven years is about how _not_ to use the skills and spells we teach just because you lose your temper at someone, because otherwise we’d have outbreaks of Jelly-Legs and Bat Bogeys every Christmas shopping season. But it would be different, I promise you, if you’d cast that hex on your brother because you really hated him, because you wanted him to suffer, to humiliate him — if you cast it in cold blood and not in the heat of anger — then you’d feel it. A part of you would start to grow a callus, and it’s the most important part.”

She frowned slightly. “A callus on my magic?”

Harry shook his head. “Your magic isn’t the most important part of you. The most important part of you is your ability to feel for other people. To care when they’re hurt, to worry when they’re in danger, to want them to be happy.  That’s the part that Dark creatures don’t have, and that Dark wizards have to kill off in themselves. And that’s the part that you’ll injure if you go down the path of returning hex for hex and jinx for jinx.” He looked around the class, from one young attentive face to another. “So, does anyone want to have another go at the question? Why is this class called Defence Against the Dark Arts?”

Maisie slowly raised her hand again, and Harry nodded to her to speak. “Because it teaches us to defend against Dark magic, from others, and how not to use the Dark Arts ourselves.”

“Five points to Hufflepuff,” Harry said.

Colin Aitkin’s hand went up. “Sir, have you ever used the Dark Arts?”

Harry nodded. “I have.”

“But you’re not a Dark wizard, are you?”

 Harry grinned. “What do you think?”

“I bloody hope not,” someone muttered.

“I think Professor McGonagall would be able to tell, and not hire you,” Colin said.

_You_ _’d think._ Harry thought back to the year his own D.A.D.A class had been literally taught by Voldemort. _Best not to share_ that _story_. “I used two curses that would qualify as Dark during the war against Tom Riddle. One, I used in anger.” He grinned at Maisie. “Not dissimilar to someone casting a Bat Bogey Hex on a brother who Transfigured their owl. And the other, I didn’t do it to hurt someone, but because we were absolutely desperate and there wasn’t time to do anything else.”

“So what you mean to do matters?” Colin asked.

“What you mean to do always matters,” Harry said. “What you actually do, those are consequences you’ll have to live with, but with magic, what you mean to do makes a difference _to you_. Not so much for the person at the business end of your wand.”

_You alone know whether it will harm your soul to help an old man avoid pain and humiliation_ _… green light_ _flaring from the end of Severus Snape_ _’s wand and illuminating his face, set in lines of revulsion._

He shook his head slightly, dislodging the memory. “You’ve got seven years to learn all this stuff,” he told the children. “For now, just remember — stay away from hexing and jinxing, even if it’s really tempting. Because apart from the damage you risk to your soul, it’ll earn you a twenty House point    deduction and detention for two weeks. Class dismissed.”

As the students filed out, Ron Weasley sauntered out of the D.A.D.A teacher’s quarters and leaned on the balustrade of the balcony. “You’re getting that ‘do as I say, not as I do’ thing down pat, I see.”

“I’d rather none of them turn into Draco Malfoy,” Harry said.

Ron jogged down the stairs. “It’d take more than casting a few Anteoculatia’s to turn someone into Malfoy.”

Harry shrugged. “Let them get good habits young, then.” There was no way to really explain his bone-deep conviction that magic used in malice was inherently dangerous, however innocuous the spell, so he changed the subject. “Young Rowland’s got promise.”

“He’s the one Ginny had to fetch off his broom,” Ron said. 

“We’d better do something to keep him busy, then.” Harry hopped down from the desk. “If he starts finding the coursework too easy, there’s no knowing what he’ll get into.”

Ron grinned. “Polyjuice Potion in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom? Casting unknown spells out of an old Potions textbook? Wandering around invisible at night and sneaking into the Restricted Section? Fighting basilisks single-handed?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I was thinking more of an unwise _Incendio_ setting fire to the Ravenclaw dormitories.” 

“Or us, given the D.A.D.A jinx,” Ron said. “Crispy-fried teacher would fit the bill, wouldn’t it?”

“You know, something occurs to me.” Harry took off his glasses and polished them on the corner of his robe. “We’d really better break the bloody jinx before we reach Unforgivable Curses in the sixth year curriculum.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s memory is, of course, largely quoted from HBP.  
> In canon, of course, Harry & co learn about the Unforgivables in their fourth year, but then, they’re being taught by a Death Eater, and Fake!Moody says that he’s not supposed to be teaching the students about Unforgivable curses until their sixth year.   
> Thank you to all my readers, and everyone who has left a review. If you haven’t, please consider it: this story has taken me more than 100 hours to write so far, so take ten seconds to give me some feedback!


	32. Chapter 32: Colin Aitkins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin is persuaded against his better judgement

“It’s not a potion,” Maisie insisted. “You asked, and Madam Lovegood said it wasn’t!”

They were in the Library again, three heads bent over the same book.

“Well, yes,” Colin said, “but …”

“But nothing. We have a teacher’s permission. We just need to get the ingredients.”

“Maisie, _why_ is this so important to you?” Mike burst out. “It’s just handle polish.”

“Look what it says in the book,” Maisie said. She put her finger on the page, and read aloud, “Every dedicated flyer should whip up a batch for their broom-shed. This polish will reinvigorate the tiredest broom and lend speed to the slowest.”

“So?” Colin said.

“ _So_ , none of us will be allowed our own brooms until next year. Madam Weasley lets me and Johannes Smythe come to her coaching, but with the school brooms, we can’t keep up.” She tapped the page. “Unless my broom is _reinvigorated_ and _lent speed_.”

“But what does it _matter_ , Maisie?” Mike asked. “You’re never going to get on to the House team. Why do you need to try and keep up with them?”

“Who says I won’t get on the team?” Maisie said, jaw set. “It wouldn’t be the first time a first year was on the team.”

“Yes but …” Colin shook his head. “Maisie, the last one was Harry Potter, and he was the first in about a century.”

“So I’ll be the second in a decade.”

“Maisie, he’s Harry Bloody Potter! The Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One!”

“He wasn’t the One Chosen To Play Quidditch, though, was he?” Maisie said reasonably. “I don’t see what being destined to defeat Voldemort has to do with sporting prowess.”

“It would be pretty awesome,” Mike said slowly. “For one of us, a first year, to beat all the older students into a place in the House team.”

“Do you really think you can, Maisie?” Colin asked. “If your broom was fast enough?”

“Oh, yes,” Maisie said matter-of-factly. “I’ve been watching them. I could be a better Beater than  any of them, if I could stay close to the Chaser. There’s not a one of them who doesn’t pull up, just a little.”

Mike Rowland thought, personally, that pulling up was a sensible thing to do when a giant ball of magical malice was heading straight for your head, but he couldn’t help imagining how it would feel to have the whole school cheering on Maisie, a first year like themselves. He was heartily sick and tired of hearing the sixth and seventh year Ravenclaw students holding forth in the common room about how they’d _almost_ fought Voldemort. _As if the fact that we were born a few years later means we_ _’ll never do anything notable or interesting in_ our _lives._

“We should do it, then,” he said. “We should make this polish. After all, Madam Lovegood practically gave us permission, right?”

Two against one. Colin had no choice but to agree. “ _I_ _’ll_ copy the recipe,” he said. “At least people can read _my_ handwriting.”

Maisie beamed. “Brilliant! This’ll be easy.”

It was not, though, at all easy. Since it was an infusion, and not a brew, the possibilities for where to prepare it were expanded. Colin pointed out that they could do it in the dormitory and store it under his bed. However, they still needed something to prepare it in. None of them had a spare cauldron, and none of them could come up with a plausible excuse for needing a new one.

“If it doesn’t have to be heat-proof …” Colin said thoughtfully one day.

Getting a serving dish out of the Great Hall without any of the teachers noticing was difficult. Getting one out without the house elves seeing and retrieving it was harder. It took them three weeks to pull it off, and even then, Maisie only managed to stuff the silver dish under her robes without detection because general attention was riveted on a whispered argument between Professor Granger and Madam Lovegood at the teacher’s table.

That night, slipping it under her bed, she said to Colin, “Now we just need the ingredients.”

“Mum has already said no,” Colin said. “And Mike’s parents said no, too. Some of the stuff on the list is bloody expensive, Maisie.”

He didn’t ask if _her_ parents had approved the expense. The very fact that Maisie had pinned her hopes on improving an old school learning broom spoke volumes.

“We could probably get them in Hogsmeade …” Maisie said thoughtfully.

“Maisie, _no!_ ” Colin was horrified. “First of all, I bet going to Hogsmeade without permission is, like, _a million_ House points off. Secondly, we could never afford them, could we?” Maisie opened her mouth and Colin cut her off. “And no way are we going to _borrow_ them from the shop. Are you mad?”

“Then we’ll have to get them from the storeroom in the Potions classroom.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “ _You_ _’ll_ have to get them.”

Colin swallowed hard. “I don’t think I really —”

“We’ve come this far,” Maisie said fiercely. “We’ve got nearly everything we need —”

“We’ve got _one thing_ out of _all the things_ we need!” Colin protested. “That’s not _nearly_ , even by Gryffindor standards.”

“Look.” Maisie took the carefully-copied recipe from her notebook. “There’s stuff here we can get ourselves. Goose grease — we can get that from the kitchens. The house elves will be happy to help us. Angel’s Trumpet is growing in one of the greenhouses, I saw it the other day in Herbology.” She studied the list. “Really, the only things we need are rat tails and dragonfly thoraxes. Maybe we could catch them, rats and dragonflies.”

Colin really wanted to agree with her, his mouth was even open to say _yes, I bet we could_ — but he couldn’t force the lie past his lips. “No. Rat tails take a year to mature, and dragonfly thoraxes have to be from dragonflies caught between the full moons of May and June. That’s why they’re so expensive.”

Maisie frowned. “They can’t be that expensive, there’s about six recipes in the textbook that use one or the other.”

“Hogwarts is a school in a literal castle,” Colin said, exasperated. “Expensive if you live in a castle and expensive if you live in a two-up two-down in Clapham are a bit different.”

“Then they won’t mind if we borrow a little, will they?” Maisie said. “I mean, we can always replace them later.”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m not anticipating a sudden inheritance,” Colin said.

“ _Later_ later.” Maisie shrugged. “Like, when we’ve got jobs. We can make an anonymous donation.”

Colin chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “You don’t think … I mean, what Professor Potter said. Isn’t this like what he warned us about?”

“We’re not using magic,” Maisie pointed out. “And we’re only borrowing. For a long time, maybe, but still, _borrowing_. I don’t think we’re going to wake up in the morning without noses or souls because of it, if he’s right, and what you mean to do matters.” When Colin still hesitated, she leaned forward. “Colin, you’ve _got_ to help me. I can’t do it without you.”

“I know you want to get on the Hufflepuff team,” Colin said slowly. “And I’d like you to get on the team, too. But is it really worth it? Breaking the rules?”

“Yes,” Maisie said fiercely.

“Why?”

She looked down at her hands for a moment. “Do you know how I know what Dark magic really looks like? Because of my cousin Ella. She fought in the Battle of Hogwarts — but not on the right side.” 

Colin gaped at her. “She was a Death Eater?”

Maisie shook her head. “Just a sympathiser. And to be honest, she wasn’t much of a witch, so I doubt she made much difference. But don’t you see? She was a Slytherin, like just about everybody else in my family, so nobody’s really thought that we must be related yet, but they will, they’ll work it out. The Sorting Hat even wanted to put me Slytherin, but I couldn’t stand it, I know that lots of them fought on Professor Potter’s side, but I couldn’t stand it!”

“Nobody would think that _you_ _’re_ on Voldemort’s side,” Colin said. “Even if they knew about your cousin.”

“My parents have moved house three times in the past five years because _everybody_ thinks that the Wilkins are Death Eater sympathisers. I have to prove myself, Colin! Before anyone in Hufflepuff finds out that I don’t really belong here, I have to prove that I do!”

  Her expression was ferocious, and in the candle-light, her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“Alright,” Colin said. “Alright, I’ll do it.”

He kept to himself his suspicion that stealing from the school’s Potions storeroom might not be the best way to convince people you were a natural-born Hufflepuff. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve made up the restrictions on preparing dragonfly thoraxes and rat tails. As well as the complete recipe for the handle polish.  
> Ella Wilkins is a bit character in the video games, a Slytherin, and there is absolutely no canonical support for her being a Death Eater sympathiser. 
> 
> I have been asked for less children and more Snape. To those readers, I say ‘Rejoice!’ The next ten chapters have a great deal of Snape, and the first of those will be up in a few hours.


	33. Chapter 33: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione tries to cope with student essays, classroom shenanigans, and a certain ex-Potions Professor who now has an Invisibility Cloak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra update today, for those who have been waiting for more Severus Snape

 

 

Hermione groaned, and ran her fingers through her hair. It had long since escaped from its knot, and flared around her head in its usual bushy mess. She knew she must look like a fairly good impersonation of Medusa, but she was too tired to care.

It was already half-way through October, and they were no closer to learning who had cursed Professor Snape. Hermione had interviewed everyone on staff who’d fought in the Battle of Hogwarts and owled all the other survivors, and after three weeks she’d been forced to conclude that the death of every Death Eater declared deceased had been witnessed. Harry reported that Kingsley Shacklebolt’s investigation had turned up absolutely not a whisper of an undiscovered Death Eater. Luna had spent hours pouring over back issues of _The Prophet_ and _The Quibbler_ and reported odd, sometimes interesting, but always irrelevant details. Ron had resurrected his friendship with Jimmy Simpson but Hermione suspected they spent most of their time talking about Quidditch. _He certainly hasn_ _’t learnt anything that seems useful._ Neville had collected a list of students most often found where they shouldn’t be over the past five years, but cross-checking them with Death Eater families, or the families of Death Eater victims, had turned up only a few tenuous links. And Ginny …

Hermione sighed. Ginny Weasley had formed a strong opinion that there was some hidden meaning in Aberforth Dumbledore’s drunken ramblings, and had set herself to collecting recollections about Severus Snape from everyone who’d know him as a colleague. Her stories were interesting, and occasionally amusing, but Hermione couldn’t see how they were _useful_.

_So what if he argued about Muggle methods with Charity Burbage? She_ _’s not likely to have come back from the dead to curse him because he refused to contemplate centrifuges._

Snape had said he had perhaps a year left to live, and a month of that year was already gone, and they were no closer to saving him …

Hermione had done her best to improve the most powerful healing potions she could brew using similar innovations to the anonymous potioneer people called ‘The Man of Mystery’ in the hope they could buy more time. She’d left them in the Potions storeroom with a note, and they’d vanished, so she presumed Snape had taken them, but whether they’d had any effect or not, she had no idea.

Hermione scrubbed her hand over her face. _And I still have all this blasted marking!_

_Good effort but you have failed to take into account the interaction between ingredients (see page 34)_ she wrote across the bottom of the essay in front of her, and graded it _Acceptable_. Placing it on the pitifully small pile of finished papers, she picked up the next.

“Troll,” Professor Snape’s silky voice said directly behind her and Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin. She twisted in her chair and saw … nothing.

_Alright, I admit it, I_ _’m being driven completely around the twist by marking. Probably not the first or the last teacher to completely lose their marbles after reading the exact same turgid regurgitation of the textbook, for that matter._

She turned her attention back to the essay. _The Confounding Conconcotion is made from_ _…_

“Troll,” Snape said again, and as Hermione gasped in shock, his long arm reached over her shoulder, one slender finger landing precisely on the spelling error. “There’s no need to read further, Granger, if the student can’t even get the name of the potion correct and misspells their error.”

“Professor Snape,” Hermione said, and had to pause to try and let her heart-rate return to normal.

He strolled around the desk and stood in front of her, folding up what looked suspiciously like Harry’s Invisibility Cloak. He had left off his billowing teaching robes, and without them, his lean form in his long, fitted coat looked angular and severe. “Professor Granger.”

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to see that you are expending needless effort,” he sneered.

“You can’t do that! Creep up on me all invisible and _watch_ me without me knowing?”

One eyebrow went up, nearly to Threat Level Five. “And did you take Potter to task with the same vehemence when he made a habit of doing precisely that as a student?”

“He didn’t creep up on people and stand around reading over their shoulder!” she shot back. “How long?”

“Did you completely fail to notice the door opening and closing?”

“I —” That had been a good fifteen minutes ago. “I thought it was a draught.”

“Yes, because these dungeons have always been so very prone to extremely high winds.” With a flick of his wand, Snape drew one of the over-stuffed chairs to him. He studied it with disdain, flicked his wand again, and watched with a faint air of satisfaction as transformed into the sleek black chair that had graced this office during his tenure. He seated himself in a swirl of black robes and studied her. “I do wonder sometimes how you managed to survive months on the run from the Dark Lord when you clearly lack even basic caution.”

“I tend to be less alert when I’m _in my own office_ ,” Hermione said tightly.

 “Foolish.”

She kept a grip on her temper with effort. “Can I help you with something? Or were you just spying on me for the fun of it?”

He regarded her over the top of his inter-laced fingers. “I was returning from a walk when I saw the light beneath the door.”

“A walk?” Hermione repeated.

“Yes, Professor Granger, a walk. Your acute intelligence is adequate to understand the concept? One foot in front of the other, progress in a forward direction?”

She scowled at him. “I know what a walk is, I just wondered why you’d be wandering the grounds at this hour!”

“Even with Potter’s cloak, traversing the corridors when they’re crowded is … unwise,” Snape said. “And seeing your light, I admit to a certain curiosity about what held your attention at, as you say, _this hour_. Perhaps a new issue of _Potions Quarterly_? A groundbreaking new academic paper? Your own promising research, perhaps?” The corners of his mouth turned down. “Imagine my disappointment to learn that you labour into the small hours merely due to inefficiency.”

Hermione gave a delicate snort. “Yes, I’m sure it was crushing,” she retorted, and was almost certain she saw a glint of humour in his dark eyes.

He gestured at the tiny pile of marked essays, a mere flick of his fingers. “There is no need to waste your time on students too inept to achieve even an ‘A’.”

Deliberately, Hermione poised her quill above the essay in front of her. “If I don’t spend time on them, they’ll never improve, will they?”

“Granger, just tell them to do it over. Eventually they’ll work out how to get it right — or ask someone who already knows.” He shrugged slightly. “Or accept that they lack all aptitude for the subject, and cease to clutter your classroom.”

“That might be what _you_ did,” Hermione said, “but _I_ happen to think that —”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Working yourself to collapse is an excellent teaching strategy?”

“I am _not_ —”

“Granger.” Snape leaned forward, gaze holding hers. “It is four o’clock in the morning, and this is the third time this week I’ve seen the light under your door at this hour.  If you labour under the illusion that you are immune to the effects of fatigue, I suggest you avail yourself of a mirror.”

Hermione’s hands rose automatically to her hair. “I hardly expected to receive a visitor,” she snapped, trying to twist the curls into a knot at the base of her neck.

Snape sighed. “I wasn’t referring to your _grooming_ , although Merlin knows it could be improved.”

Stung, Hermione lowered her hands. _Being lectured by Severus Snape on personal grooming, that_ _’s got to be a new low._ “If you’ve just come here to insult me, you can bloody well leave.”     

“I came here to advise you not to waste your time on tasks beneath you.” Snape began to unfasten the buttons at his left wrist. “You have a reasonable grasp of classroom practices —”

“You’ve been watching me.”

“Of course. Do thank Potter for me.” The buttons undone, he rolled the sleeve up to the elbow with precise movements. “And you have a strong, if derivative, grasp of the principles underlying potion innovation.” He pushed up his shirt-sleeve and turned his arm to face her. “As you see.”

The sickening grey of the curse was still there, but —

Hermione rose to her feet, Snape’s insults forgotten. “It’s better.”

He gave a small nod. “In the comparative use of the word, if not the absolute. Your potions appear to be effective.”

Hurrying around the desk, she took his wrist before he had the chance to protest and turned his arm so she could get a better look. “Not really mine,” she said absently. _Yes, it_ _’s definitely smaller._ “I applied the principles from an improvement to basic healing salve that were published last year — how quickly did you see the effect? How many doses have you taken? Would increasing —”

Snape reclaimed his arm with a twist of his wrist and pushed his sleeve back down. “Gryffindor honesty. I wondered if you would admit the truth, or claim credit for my work.”

Hermione gaped at him. “ _Your_ work — you’re the Man of Mystery!”

He scowled up at her as he re-buttoned the sleeve of his coat. “I am _not._ I am an anonymous correspondent. What the inane and inappropriately named _The Prophet_ might write is beyond my control.”

“No, I mean —” Hermione took a breath. “I had the chance to analyse your improvements. And you’re right, they’re the basis for what I did with the potions. But more than that — they were effective.” She realised she was rubbing her arm, and stopped.

Snape’s gaze flicked from her arm to her face, and back, and then back again. He finished fastening his sleeve, and extended his hand. “Show me.”

Hermione took a step back, folding her arms. “It’s just an old scar.”

He waited, hand outstretched. “That still bothers you. Show me.” When she didn’t move, he raised an eyebrow. “Come now, Professor Granger. I showed you mine.”

Hermione stared at him. _Was that_ _… a joke? Did Professor Snape just make a joke?_

As inconceivable as it was, it seemed to be true.

_And really, compared to the decaying flesh caused by a killing curse, how bad can an old scar be?_

She pushed up her sleeve, turned her arm and showed him the faint silvery _mudblood_ engraved forever on her skin.

Snape raised his hand and for an instant Hermione thought he was going to touch the scar. She braced herself, but he stopped an inch before his fingers reached her skin. He ran his hand down her arm, keeping the same distance, and back again. “My salve should have erased that,” he said at last, voice and face expressionless, and turned away.

“It’s ever so much better,” Hermione said, pulling her sleeve down again. “With the new salve. Your new salve.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” His back was to her and she couldn’t see his face, but his voice was still utterly even. “However. It still pains you.”

“Only a little.”

Snape swung back to face her at that, and his eyes glittered in a face as white as chalk. “Only. A. Little.” His mouth worked, as if he were about to spit. “ _Marvellous_. Who gave you that?”

_Malfoy Manor and her face ground into a carpet that smelled of dust and blood and the pain, the pain —_ Crucio! _and again and again and then a new agony, sharp, focused —_ “Bellatrix Lestrange,” Hermione managed to say, her voice sounding high and far away to her own ears. 

Snape looked away for a moment, and when he turned back his face was once more set in his habitual expression of boredom and contempt. “Of course. Bella always had a problem understanding the idea of leaving alone what she had no right to touch.”  He looked Hermione up and down. “Continue using the salve. I will brew a potion that will also help. And kindly do not make my task more difficult by continuing to neglect your health.” He put one long-fingered hand on her shoulder and turned her towards the door. “Sleep more than a few hours a night. Eat more than sandwiches at your desk. Go outside occasionally. Are these instructions simple enough for you to comprehend?” He gave her a push towards to the door.

“My marking,” she protested, resisting.

“I think I can be trusted with that pile of drivel your students so loosely call ‘essays’.”

“And when they wonder about the handwriting?”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “Tell them you have a teaching assistant. One with decidedly higher standards than yours. Go.”

He pushed her towards the door again, and this time, Hermione went.

The next morning, as she applied herself to a breakfast that almost rivalled Ron’s, Hermione had to admit that Professor Snape had been right. Instead of setting her alarm for five, in order to squeeze in another few hours of marking or lesson preparation, she’d slept until there was barely enough time to wash and dress and make the Great Hall for breakfast.

And she felt significantly better.

When she reached her office, she was almost expecting to see Snape there. The room was empty, even after she cast a quick _Homenum Revelio._ The essays, though, were there, neatly stacked. Hermione glanced at the one on the top of the pile, and winced. Everything after the first paragraph was struck through with one slashing red line, and Professor Snape’s spiky handwriting — so familiar from her own student essays — down the margin. _Not only incorrect, but intolerably dull — D._

Scanning the essay, Hermione was forced to agree with Snape’s comment. _Although I wouldn_ _’t have phrased it that way myself._

There wasn’t time to remark all the essays. Resolving not to let Snape loose on them again, no matter _how_ tired she was, Hermione gathered them up and headed to her first class.

The first two classes were uneventful, if tiring — Hermione had yet to work out how to keep a class silent and attentive without effort, the way Professors McGonagall and Snape had always managed. She was just congratulating herself on a successful morning’s teaching as she supervised her first year students crushing Moondew when there was a clatter from one of the Ravenclaw tables.

Hermione whipped around to see Michael Rowland looking sadly at his pestle — which was in three pieces.

“How did you manage to do that — no, _don_ _’t_ sweep it —”

Too late. Rowland brushed the partially crushed Moondew to the side, straight into the already-prepared pile of Billywig stings. They flared up in a painfully bright reaction, which jumped from Rowland’s table to Wilkins and Aitkins before Hermione could cast a containment charm.

“Oh _no_ ,” Rowland said, horrified.

Hermione forced herself to count to ten, slowly. “Mr Rowland, one foot on why we _never_ mix different ingredients except _exactly_ as called for in the recipe, by Friday. Ms Wilkins, Mr Aitkins, you’d better get fresh supplies.”

“I’ll get them,” Aitkins said quickly. “Maisie, you clean up the bench.”

Hermione kept an eye on Rowland as he miserably wiped up what was left of his ingredients, but he didn’t seem to be prone to any further mistakes. _In fact, I_ _’d hardly think he was the most likely student to have made that error in the first place._

_I should probably ask him after class if there_ _’s something worrying him —_

And she heard the soft but unmistakable sound of Professor Snape clearing his throat.

Hermione spun around, but of course he was nowhere to be seen. Out of the corner of her eye, though …

“Mr Aitkins.” Three strides took her across the room. “ _Why_ do you have a pocket full of rat tails?”

Colin blinked up at her. “I, er —”

“Turn out your pockets, please.” Hermione was quite proud of that ‘please’. _See, Professor Snape? Even in the face of provocation, a_ good _teacher doesn_ _’t have to be rude._

A handful of rat tails landed on the table, followed by a paper twist containing … Hermione sniffed. _Dragonfly thorax._

“Detention, Mr Aitkins, for the rest of this week. Return those to the storeroom, and see me after your last class today.”

“Yes, Professor,” he said sadly.

Hermione watched Colin like a hawk for the rest of the class, making sure he didn’t go anywhere near the storeroom. He was, however, on his best behaviour — which did nothing to make her less uneasy.


	34. Chapter 34: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not an *entirely* stupid idea …

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A departure from canon in this chapter, retconning a few moments in the series.

 

At last the class filed out, on their way to lunch. Hermione took a last turn around the classroom, checking that she hadn’t missed any spilt ingredients. She was unsurprised when the bolt on the door shot home apparently by itself, and a ripple in the air resolved itself into Severus Snape removing the Invisibility Cloak.

“Precocious brats,” he said. “Even _you_ waited until your second year before plundering my storeroom in pursuit of illicit brewing.”

“At least it’s only Hair Raising Tonic,” Hermione said. “Even if they’d got away with it, the worst that could happen if it went wrong is a bad smell.”

 Snape folded his arms and leaned against the door. “Your infinite optimism is unwarranted. The ‘worst that could happen’ is that one of the dunderheads adds dragon’s blood instead of dragonfly thorax and blows up whatever inappropriate and inadequate makeshift laboratory they’ve contrived.”

His tone was so disapprovingly theatrical that a gasp of laughter escaped Hermione before she could swallow it. “That would only happen if they got their hands on dragon’s blood, which is locked up in _my_ storeroom.”

“Unless Hagrid has another inappropriate _pet,_ ” Snape said dourly.

“He _does_ have another inappropriate pet, but it’s a Graphorn. Nearly full-grown.”

Snape considered that. “Difficult to see how the little fools can acquire inappropriate potions materials from one of those,” he conceded at last. “Not without losing a limb.”

“They’re not _fools,_ ” Hermione said. “They’re quite bright, actually.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Their results in your classroom speak for themselves, and say otherwise.”

“I admit, they could use more attention to detail, but —”

The eyebrow rose further. “In Potion making, detail is everything, Granger, as you yourself discovered when —”

“Yes, yes.” Hermione could feel herself blushing as she cut Snape off before he could once again remind her of the unfortunate incident with the Polyjuice. “Believe me, Professor Snape, I learnt my lesson. I’ll never make assumptions about potion ingredients again.”

“I’m glad at least one of the Terrible Trio learnt _something_ from all those ridiculous schemes you attempted,” Snape sneered.

Wand raised to cast a cleaning spell on Michael Rowland’s desk, Hermione swung around. “That’s not fair!”

Snape froze, absolutely still, not even blinking, barely breathing, and Hermione realised she was pointing her wand at him. She lowered it. “Sorry. But Ron and Harry learnt just as much as me, not necessarily about Potions, but about Charms,  and Defence Against the Dark Arts especially.”

Snape recrossed his arms, the end of his wand disappearing from his palm back up his sleeve. “I’m so glad the free rein Albus extended to you three only _marginally_ impaired your education, then, instead of utterly crippling it.”

Hermione shook her head. “I’d say _extended_ our education. We learnt a lot of things that we might not have, otherwise. Trying to find the Philosopher’s Stone, and the Chamber of Secrets, and all the rest of it was definitely a powerful motivator when it came to studying beyond the coursework.” She Scourgified the desk, and then lowered her wand. “Professor Snape. That’s what Aitkins needs. And Wilkins and Rowland, too.”

His lip curled. “Life-endangering peril and a reason for continual rule-breaking?”

“A quest!” she said excitedly.  “Something to engage their minds, to get them thinking beyond the coursework. And you know, until the last couple of years, I don’t think we were ever _really_ in life-endangering peril.”

Snape scowled at her. “Werewolves are generally considered life-endangering, Granger. To name one.”

“Yes, but you were there,” Hermione pointed out. “Someone always was, if something happened beyond our ability to handle.”

“You were very _lucky_.” The contemptuous twist Snape gave the word made it very clear exactly how low his opinion was of luck and those who relied on it.

“We were very well guarded and supervised much more than we thought we were, weren’t we?” Hermione waited, but he didn’t make a sound. “Oh, admit it, Professor, after all these years it’s not going to do irreparable damage to the self-reliance you were all fostering in us to know that if a troll had been too much for three eleven-year-olds to handle you were around the corner with your wand at the ready.”

She had almost given up on getting an answer when Snape inclined his head slightly. “Minerva McGonagall was, actually.”

“You see?”

“I _see_ that keeping the three of you safe put the staff of this school to considerable inconvenience.”

“I know, and thank you. But that’s not my point. Just imagine what we would have been like, Harry and Ron and me, if we _hadn_ _’t_ had those adventures to focus on.  Ron — he might have followed in Fred and George’s footsteps. Me? Researching what interested me instead of whatever Dumbledore so carefully guided me to —”

“That _was_ me.” He paused, and then reluctantly added, “But you make a point.”

Hermione grinned at him. “So why can’t we do the same for our own Terrible Three?”

“Because, Granger, there are many other students in this school and they are _all_ equally deserving of your attention and, yes, your care. Other students suffered because the staff were so focused on the three of you, you know. It would have been the height of irresponsibility if it hadn’t been so utterly necessary to prepare Potter for what would inevitably come.” He looked away, mouth twisted as if he’d tasted something sour. “Even then, there were moments when the three of you were utterly alone and in more danger than any child could reasonably be expected to survive.”

“Oh.” Hermione’s shoulders slumped. Of course other students had suffered from teachers distracted by what she, Harry and Ron had got up to. That was obvious, in retrospect. “You’re right, of course. It’s a stupid idea.”

“I didn’t mean to say it was an _entirely_ stupid idea,” Snape said. “Only that you should take great care in making it a very small and very _safe_ quest.” He raised an eyebrow and said, with acid contempt, “One that even _Hufflepuffs_ can, at least, attempt.”

“Will you help me?” Hermione asked impulsively.

And regretted it the next instant, as his eyebrow lifted clear past Threat Level Five and he stared at her as if she’d spontaneously grown a second head. _Although he probably_ has _seen students grow second heads from time to time, over the years._ “Help you,” he said flatly.

“Well, it’s just an idea,” Hermione said hastily. “I mean, you’ve got Harry’s cloak — and you don’t have teaching duties — and you’re certainly capable of dealing with any unforeseen circumstances …” Her voice trailed away under the weight of his stare. “But, I mean, clearly, if you don’t want to …”

“You’ll attempt this harebrained scheme yourself?”

It did sound stupid, when he put it like that. Hermione bit her lip, and then shrugged a little. “Probably not. I mean, no, I won’t. There’s too much risk of something going wrong with just me, isn’t there?”

“You surprise me, Granger,” Snape said silkily. “Lack of self-confidence and cowardice — not qualities I would have expected from you.”

She frowned at him. “Isn’t that what you’d praise in a Slytherin, common sense and caution?”

“The idea of you in Slytherin House is horrifying,” Snape said flatly. It was exactly the tone in which he’d looked at her hideously enlarged teeth and said _I see no difference._ Hermione felt a flush of humiliation at the memory.

“For me too,” Hermione snapped before she could stop herself with a reminder that she knew, now, that this man was a hero.

“What happened to your belief in breaking down the barriers between Houses?” he sneered. “Usually your crusades last longer than a few weeks. Or is it only Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws who benefit from your friends’ new-found _tolerance_?”

“And has your House developed a new _tolerance_ for Muggle-born witches?” Hermione shot back. “Didn’t think so.”

She cast one finally and unnecessarily forceful _Scourgify_ that almost stripped the paint from the desk and shoved her wand back into her sleeve. 

“If you’ll excuse me?” she asked pointedly.

With the slightest sketch of a mocking bow, Snape stepped aside, unbolting the door as he did so.

Hermione stalked past him and into the corridor. _Bloody buggering stuck-up Slytherin —_

“Why do you insist on misunderstanding me?” Snape said from behind her.

Hermione whirled on her heel, but he had put on the cloak and disappeared.

_Of course._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos so far, and especially for the comments! Every bit of feedback makes my day.


	35. Chapter 35: Severus Snape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus Snape reflects

The door closed behind Hermione Granger and Severus Snape allowed himself an invisible sneer.

 _Gryffindors_.

He bolted the door behind her and shrugged off the Invisibility Cloak once more.

_Too much to ask to expect that she would be able to see past the House prejudice inculcated so assiduously during her schooling to understand what I said._

Still, he had observed enough of her classes, hidden beneath James Potter’s cloak, to know that the newly-minted Professor Granger didn’t allow her preconceptions to affect her teaching. She was as scrupulously fair as a Hufflepuff. As fair as —

He veered away from that train of thought with the speed of long practice, and settled into his old chair behind the Potions Professor’s desk. From here, the room was almost exactly as it had been. The desks, arranged in two rows, forming a half-circle so that every cauldron could be seen by the teacher; the shelves of the less dangerous ingredients in jars and bottles and vials; the part-marked essays on the desk; the door to the storeroom where the more dangerous, and expensive, ingredients were stored.

It could have been any lunchtime in the past two decades: the morning’s classes finished; the students in the Great Hall with those members of staff more sociably inclined presiding at the high table; the dungeons at peace, for a short space of time.

Except the essays sprawled across the desk were marked in a round, looping hand, not his own angular script. 

He picked one up.  _Michael Rowland, Ravenclaw_. The boy who had apparently made the dunderheaded mistake of combining Billywig stings with crushed Moondew. Snape scanned the parchment and was forced to agree with Granger: the probability Rowland had deliberately created an opportunity for Aitkins to be in the storeroom alone was high. He reached for the quill beside the ink-pot and frowned when he realised that Professor Granger had still not broken herself of the execrable habit of chewing the end of her quill. Careful not to touch the disgustingly mangled feathers at the tip, he dipped the quill and noted a volume Rowland might find educational in the margin of the boy’s essay.

 _They need a quest_ _…_ he snorted at Granger’s whimsy. _What they need is a month_ _’s detention._

And yet he’d almost encouraged her.  _A very small and very_ safe _quest_ … What had come over him? For a moment the air of worry and anxiety that had been her constant companion since her arrival at Hogwarts had cleared and she’d been, once again, the Hermione Granger whose boundless enthusiasm for truly insane enterprises had been the bane of his and every other teacher’s existence. _Polyjuice Potion_ _… Hippogriff smuggling … not to mention the time she actually set me on fire. I’m glad that the weight of adult responsibilities has tempered her exuberance._

He _was_ glad. It had been nothing more than a momentary lapse, an instant’s irrationality he could only attribute to the effects of the curse … or, no, more likely, he had been motivated by the snide thought that natural justice would see Hermione Granger experience the constant fretting over students’ safety, the strain of vigilance, the discomfort and, on more than one occasion, the danger that Snape himself had been put through on her behalf, her behalf and that of Potter and Weasley.

Snape smiled. Yes, that was it. _It would serve her right to undertake this lunacy._

Viewed in that light, it was almost his responsibility to encourage her. _In the interests of her education._

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter today, but the length of the ones coming up should make up for it.


	36. Chapter 36: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus Snape makes a suggestion

 

He knocked, that evening.

When Hermione said _come in_ , Professor Snape was still only a disturbance in the air as the door opened and closed and the bolt shot home, but still: he’d knocked.

It was an improvement.

Snape removed Harry’s invisibility cloak with one smooth gesture. _Not for him Harry_ _’s habit of forgetting half-way and hovering around as a disembodied head._ That was far too undignified for the man who had never attended a single class dressed with anything less than the strictest formality.

He was dressed that way now, the dull black of his jacket a contrast to the slight lustre of his robe and the spotless white linen just showing at his wrists and neck. “Professor Granger.”

Hermione matched his expressionless tone. “Professor Snape. To what do I owe the pleasure, this evening?”

“Your students’ essays.”

She shook her head. “Oh, no. I’m grateful for your help, but I can’t in all good conscience allow you free range to shatter their self-esteem and destroy their confidence.”

“There is nothing more dangerous in your classroom than misplaced confidence.” He had not moved from the door, and Hermione realised he was waiting for her to offer him a seat, which was also, as far as she was concerned, an improvement.

A small and petty part of her wanted to leave him standing uncomfortably by the door, to make it as clear as possible to him that he was an interloper now in this room that must be so familiar to him. _The idea of you in Slytherin_ …

If she hadn’t been aware that he was in less-than-perfect health, Hermione might have done it. Instead she sighed and drew a chair closer to her desk with a wave of her wand. “Do sit down, Professor. Would you like tea? Or —” She checked her watch. “Something stronger, given the hour?”

Snape seated himself. “Thank you, no. Am I to understand that you are refusing my assistance?”

“You are.” Hermione thumbed the edge of her stack of marked essays. “I’ve taken your advice, as much as I can, on spending less time on each essay, but I’m not comfortable with the … the unkindness of many of your comments.”

He laced his hands together, elbows on the arms of the chair. “And as a teacher, you must avoid _discomfort_ at all costs.”

Hermione felt herself flush. “That’s not what I meant.”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Then you should be more precise in your expression, and ensure you say what you mean.”

“You first,” Hermione snapped.

“I always say what I mean, Professor Granger.”

“ _The idea of you in Slytherin House is horrifying_ ,” Hermione mimicked. “Why not just say, _there_ _’s no place for Muggle-borns in_ my _House._ ”

For just an instant, Hermione thought she saw Snape’s eyes widen, the reflection of candlelight in their deep black flaring slightly. “That was not what I meant,” he said. “Do you still, after everything, believe it to be even plausible that I subscribe to the idiocy of pure-blood prejudice?” He leaned forward slightly. “Lily Potter shared your background.”

“Some of my best friends are black,” Hermione shot back.

Snape settled back in his chair. “I chose _you_ to succeed me in this office,” he said, clipping each word. “Which makes it exceedingly likely that you will, eventually, become Head of Slytherin House, as that position is traditionally associated with the Potions Master.”

“Oh, you think I’d be a good Head of House to a House I’m not worthy of being a member of?” Hermione scoffed.

“You would have been a credit to Slytherin House,” Snape said quietly. “And I am confident that, when time has passed, and the old attitudes have washed away, you will be an exceptional Head of House. Contemplating how difficult it would have been for you, had you been sorted into Slytherin in your first year, and how difficult it would have been for _me_ to keep you safe from your fellow students in that House, is, however, horrifying.”

Hermione blinked at him. “Oh,” she managed to say at last. _That_ _’s bloody brilliant, that is, you dolt. ‘Oh’._ “I thought — I mean, I misunderstood you.”

Snape’s lip curled. “Clearly.”

Hermione threw her quill down in frustration. “Why do you do that?” she demanded. “Say something nice and then be horrible again?”

His eyebrows went up. “Nice?” he asked with frosty disdain. “I was merely speaking the truth.”

His expression gave Hermione no clue to how he meant her to take that. “I wish I was a proper Legilimens,” she said impulsively. “Then I might have some idea of what you actually thought.”

“Even with great natural talent, I very much doubt that at your age you could have acquired the level of skill to make _that_ possible.”

“No.” _He fooled Voldemort for years, after all_. Hermione smiled ruefully. “And I don’t. Have natural talent, I mean. For either Legilimency _or_ Occlumency.”

“I recommend you improve your grasp of both,” Snape said. “A little Legilimency in the classroom can stop a great deal of trouble before it starts — and you never know when you might find a student in your classes who _is_ a naturally gifted Legilimens.” He paused, and then said in a tone of studied neutrality. “I can teach you, if you wish.”

_Merlin_ _’s pants, never!_ The thought of Severus Snape prowling through her thoughts made Hermione’s palms sweat. She could imagine the contempt with which he’d view the memory of her day-long crying jag after that first disastrous conversation with her parents once she’d returned their memories — or any of the times, in the first months after the war, when she’d tried and failed to make herself look at the word carved into her arm —  or her and Ron’s first fumbling attempt at sex —

“You should bear in mind that whatever memory has you looking so embarrassed, Granger, could potentially be exposed by a sufficiently talented student,” Snape said dryly.

“I’m not sure that would be worse,” Hermione said. Snape’s eyebrow went up to dangerous levels, and she said hastily, “Alright, yes, I know that _would_ be worse. I just don’t like the thought of …”

“No-one enjoys having the privacy of their mind invaded,” Snape said, “even when the aim is only to teach how to best resist such invasions in future.” He paused. “If your objection is to me specifically, I believe that Auror training still includes instruction in both Legilimency and Occlumency. Potter or Weasley could assist you.” He gave a thin smile. “Although not as effectively as I. But I see from your expression that you prefer inefficiency to accepting lessons from me.”

If he had been anyone else, Hermione would have thought there was a trace of hurt in his voice. She bit her lip. “Professor … Harry’s told me about — about learning Occlumency from you.”

“An experience I assure you I enjoyed even less than he,” Snape said. “It was a matter of great importance and greater urgency. And I …” His gaze shifted away from her. “My patience, in those days, was not at its greatest.”

_Hard to imagine that it could have been._ Still, it was an admission of fallibility Hermione wouldn’t have expected from Professor Snape. Even so, she couldn’t shake a deep reluctance to expose her own moments of weakness or inexperience to the supremely composed man sitting across from her. “I’ll consider what you’ve said,” she temporised. “How is your arm? Has it improved any more?”

He brushed the place on his left arm where the curse lay beneath the sleeve with the fingers of his right hand. “No better. Nor any worse.” He produced a small bottle from somewhere within his coat and leaned forward to set it on her desk. “Two drops, morning and evening. The taste is … distinctive, I’m afraid.”

Hermione picked it up. “Thank you.”

“I wondered if you would be willing to share your research notes. There may be other improvements to be made.”

“Of course.” Hermione pushed the stack of essays aside and hunted through her papers. “They’re here somewhere.”

His lip curled. “If that is your idea of a filing system, Professor Granger —”

She cut across him. “It isn’t. I was looking over them again this evening. Here.”

Snape took the parchment from her and for a moment Hermione thought he was going to make a snide remark about her handwriting, _which would be a bit pot-kettle if you ask me_ , but he rolled up the parchment without comment. “And your marking?”

“I should be done soon.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I will leave you to your penance, then, Granger.”

“It’s not penance,” she said, already reaching for the next in the stack of papers. “It’s part of the job. And stay, if you’d like. There’s a new issue of Potions Quarterly on the bookshelf there, if you haven’t seen it.”

Snape stood, and prowled over to the bookshelf she’d indicated. “Marking essays someone else has offered to take responsibility for _is_ penance,” he said dryly. “Although I find it hard to imagine you could have committed sins grave enough to require such extravagant atonement as twenty-four second-year essays on the uses of asphodel.” 

Hermione smiled, and matched his tone. “That may say more about your imagination than it does about my sins, Professor.”

Selecting a volume, Snape paused, his lips twitching as if he were trying not to return her smile.  “Speaking of imagination. You will find that it needs a magical object of some kind.”

Hermione blinked. “What does?”

“Your quest,” Snape elaborated, taking his seat again. “It needs a magic object.”

“Oh, you mean, for the McGuffin?”

He regarded her with narrowed eyes for a moment. “Since you are now speaking in terms unknown to me, I must conclude that either you do not require my participation in the remainder of the conversation, or that you are attempting to manipulate me into admitting ignorance by asking you to explain.” He raised his book, and said from behind it, “Both are exceedingly ill-mannered, which is hardly surprising coming from a Gryffindor.”

Her mouth open to shoot back a blistering reply to his slur against her House, Hermione paused. With careful parsing, the first sentence was simply a very Snape-like way of asking _what is a McGuffin_? “A McGuffin — it’s a Muggle term, from film-making. It means, well. An object that drives the plot by the protagonist’s desire to possess it.”

“Like the Maltese Falcon.”

She gaped at him an instant. “Exactly like the Maltese Falcon. I didn’t know you watched Muggle films.”

“I don’t.”

“Then how …?”

“Apply your fine, if not often focused, mind, Granger.”

She stared at him. “John Houston was a wizard?”

“No. Arthur Edeson.” He narrowed his eyes at her blank expression. “The cinematographer, Granger. How can you — oh, I see.”

“You see what?”

“You haven’t seen the film since your magic came in, have you? I mean, at a cinema, not on the television.”

“No.”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “You should. So, your McGuffin. What should it be? Something that can’t cause harm when they inevitably try to use it.”

“How do you know they’ll try to use it? Harry and Ron and I never tried to use the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“If Potter had been going to use the Stone, he wouldn’t have been able to find it. And that’s not my point, Granger. The Philosopher’s Stone was a real object that a real Dark Lord really wanted. This is a game.”

“It has to be something they’ll really, _really_ want to find. I mean, _we_ didn’t so much want to find the Philosopher’s Stone to stop _you_ stealing it.” He raised his head and she went on hastily, “That’s what we thought. At the time.”

“I know,” he said disdainfully.  

“I’ll have to go to the Library and do some research. It has to be something relatively harmless, small enough, and either easy to get or already at Hogwarts.”

“There is an easier alternative,” Snape said, and raised his eyebrow when she didn’t catch on. “Granger, just make something up. Think about what sort of bright, shiny magical object would have been irresistible to you three when you were eleven.”

“Oh!” She didn’t even need to think about it. “A book that contains every other book you ever want to read —”

“Irresistible to _all three_ of you.” Snape’s tone was dry.

“Oh.” She frowned. “That’s harder. We didn’t really have much in common, you know. I wanted nothing more than to learn everything in the world I could, Harry was Quidditch mad, and as much as Ron was keen on it, his real passion was chess.”

His eyebrow went up. “Weasley? Chess?”

She nodded. “Yes, and he’s really good at it. I mean, he might even be great. Quite a lot of people think he’s going to be the youngest Supreme Great Grandmaster ever.”

“ _Ronald_ Weasley?”

“He’s not an idiot, you know. He never was.” Her tone was sharper than she’d intended.

“Then he was doing a remarkably good impersonation of one in —”

“He was terrified of you, you _git_!” She realised her voice was raised and struggled to moderate her tone. “We all were, but Ron and Neville were too petrified to be able to think, let alone learn!”

Snape shrugged. “Not very Gryffindor of them.”

“Oh, for —” Hermione threw up her hands. “Nobody doubts that you’re brilliant at brewing, but as a teacher you left a _lot_ to be desired.”

“Yes, because fair and caring teachers are exactly the sort of people Dark Lords seeking world domination trust implicitly to carry out their orders.”

She shook her head. “Oh, no, you don’t get to use that excuse. Of the things in your head that you had to be worried Voldemort would see, not being an utterly unfair bastard in the classroom would have to rank right at the very bottom.”

“And the things in _your_ head, Granger? Or Longbottom’s? Or Draco’s? Or any other student in the school with no Occlumency protection who might find themselves in the hands of a Death Eater?”

“When we started school, there _were_ no Death Eaters. Voldemort was gone, as far as —”

“Everybody except Albus Dumbledore and myself believed.”

“Oh.” Her anger deflated.

“Indeed.” He turned a page. “It didn’t hurt, of course, that I genuinely found Potter’s self-satisfaction odious.”

“He wasn’t like that,” Hermione objected. “Not at all.”

One dark eyebrow lifted. “Which of us, Professor Granger, is the Legilimens?”

“Which of us, Professor Snape, met Harry without more baggage than could fit in the Hogwarts Express?”

His gaze lifted from the page and met hers, expressionless. “Be careful, Granger. You are treading dangerously close to subjects you know nothing about.”  

“And you’re wading right through them if you’re trying to tell me you know Harry Potter better than I do,” Hermione retorted. “And don’t try to pull the infallible Legilimens routine on me — I might be lousy at it, but I know enough to know it isn’t like reading a book. It’s _particularly_ unreliable when your own emotions are — ”

“Firmly under control, I assure you,” Snape said, but he looked back at his book as he spoke.

_Liar_. If there was one thing Snape had struggled to be around Harry Potter, it was firmly under control. Deciding it was wise not to press the point, Hermione cast around for a change of subject. “How about something that gives House points?”

“Pardon?”

“For the quest. How about something — a magical object — that gives the owner House points?”

Snape looked into the distance, eyes hooded. “Too implausible,” he said at last. “If such an object existed, the staff would soon notice the discrepancy.”

“Then a way of _earning_ House points, more easily. A book with answers for classes and exams —”

“Those already exist,” Snape pointed out. “They’re called _textbooks_ , and every student has a great number of them.”

“An invisibility — not cloak, ring or something. An invisibility ring.”

“The deception would be exposed an instant after they located it, and, inevitably, tried it on.”

Hermione folded her arms. “Well, then, _you_ come up with something.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Granger, this is _your_ quest.”

“So you can’t think of anything, either,” Hermione said smugly.

He gazed at her expressionlessly for a moment. “An object that attracts any Golden Snitch in the vicinity,” he said at last. “Worn, or carried, by a Seeker, guaranteeing victory on the Quidditch field.”

“Not everybody plays Quidditch,” Hermione objected.

“No, and it’s extremely unlikely that one of your three troublemakers would be the Seeker for their House,” Snape said. “However. Everybody _watches_ Quidditch, and cares about how well their House does.” He looked back at his book, and went on in a tone of profound boredom, “And it provides a moral dilemma, which I believe any any decent quest requires.”

“Whether to use it to cheat, or not?”

“And, if they choose to cheat, on whose behalf. I believe they are not all in the same House? And then, whether to tell the Seeker of the team they choose what the object does, or to deceive him or her.”

Hermione nodded. “A Quidditch Ring. Or necklace. Or glove. The Quidditch Glove. No, that doesn’t sound right. The Quidditch … the Quidditch Key!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is, in chess, no such thing as a Supreme Great Grandmaster. However, as the youngest Muggle chess grandmaster achieved that rank at 12 years old, I have created new accolades for Wizarding Chess to express Ron’s excellence at it.


	37. Chapter 37: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione makes a plan, and supervises a detention

_I need,_ Hermione thought firmly as she walked back and forth before Barnaby the Barmy before breakfast the next morning, _a room with lots of keys._

When the door appeared, it opened onto a room that was little more than a cupboard — but one lined with hooks, from which hung keys of every conceivable description. Huge ornate keys that looked like they’d unlock St Paul’s Cathedral — car keys — tiny keys no larger than the nail on her little finger —

She rejected each in turn. _It has to be something small enough to carry in a pocket_ _… something that fits with the wizarding world … something too big to get accidentally lost …_

She reached for the perfect one: an old-fashioned door key, one that looked like it might easily open a classroom or storeroom door here in Hogwarts. It was worn and dull, but the bow was ornate and, when she studied it, beautiful in a slightly strange way, with intertwining cords wrapping around it. She weighed it in her hand and felt its solidity. _Perfect_.

“I’m going to have to ask,” Ron said behind Hermione, and she jumped. He leaned forward to peer over her shoulder. “What by Merlin’s saggy right —”

“Ron!”

“— sock,” he went on smoothly. “Made you need a locksmith’s storeroom.”

“I needed a key,” Hermione said. She put the one she’d chosen in her pocket and closed the door.

“Having trouble with your Alohomora?” Ron fell into step with her as she started back down the corridor.

“As if,” Hermione retorted. “No, it’s for —” She paused. “It sounds a bit mental when I say it out loud.”

“As mental as my best friend having a bit of old Coldysnort stuck in his head for most of his life? No?”

“No, not that mental,” Hermione agreed. “There are these three first year students. They’re a bit … well, let’s say they need something to focus their attention.”

“Troublemakers,” Ron translated.

“No, not exactly,” Hermione said. “I mean, they don’t muck up in class for no reason, and they do their homework, but I caught one of them pinching the ingredients for Hair Raising Potion the other day, and I’m almost sure the other two were in on it.”

“So you’re going to … hit them with a key?”

“I was thinking,” Hermione said, hearing a preemptive defensive note in her voice, “that it might be good for them to have a bit of direction for their extra-curricular activities, so, you know, they could be steered towards learning useful things. Like we had.”

“That _is_ mental,” Ron said cheerfully. “We weren’t so much steered towards useful things as trying not to get killed while in over our heads.”

“Well I don’t intend to send them off to destroy the seven separate parts of a dark wizard’s soul,” Hermione snapped. 

“Why don’t you just give them detention?”

“Because that worked so well on you and Harry,” Hermione said. “I remember many a time when the two of you stopped before running off the the Forbidden Forest, or the Restricted Section, and said ‘oh, we’d better not go, I’d hate to get _detention_ ’.”

Ron laughed. “Alright, fair enough. So what’s your plan?”

“I’m going to make sure they hear about the Quidditch Key — a key that attracts the Snitch to whoever is carrying it.”

“That’s brilliant!” Ron said enthusiastically. “I wish we’d had that —”

“It doesn’t exist, Ron,” Hermione said. “It’s just an ordinary key.”

He deflated a bit. “Oh. Right. That makes more sense. So you tell them about the imaginary key — actually, it’s better if they hear about it accidentally, right? Work it out themselves.”

Hermione nodded. “And then I’ll hide it somewhere, and — well, there will have to be tasks, or tests, won’t there?”

“Like with the Stone!” Ron said. “A chess game — I bet Neville’s got some Devil’s Snare —”

“I don’t know if any of them are any good at chess,” Hermione said. “Or Herbology. It has to be something they can _pass_. With effort.”

“Then that’s your next step, isn’t it?” Ron said as they rounded the corner and started down the stairs. “Find out what they’re good at.”

Hermione sighed. “It really is a completely mental idea, isn’t it? As if I have time to do any of this, between teaching, and marking, and, you know, the other thing.”

“I think you should do it,” Ron said, surprising her. He punched her lightly on the arm. “You haven’t looked this, I dunno, happy or something, since we got here.”

Hermione bit her lip. “What if I mess it up somehow? If they get hurt?”

“We’ll help,” Ron said easily. “Harry and Ginny and me. And Neville and Luna, too. And you have to work it out first, right? We might have the curse broken before you’re even ready — both curses, even.” He grinned down at her. “And then we’ll be dying for something interesting to do. You’ll be doing us a favour, really.”

“Oh, really?” Hermione said, trying and failing not to grin back.

“No, it’s a complete lie,” Ron said. He opened the door to the Great Hall with a swish of his wand, garnering impressed stares from the students waiting to enter. “But I’ll help anyway.”

As she spread marmalade on her toast, Hermione mulled over what Ron had said. _Happy or something_. She supposed that was true. _After all, ever since I_ _’ve arrived here I’ve been worried. About not telling Harry and Ron about Professor Snape; about Professor Snape himself, even before I knew what was really wrong with him. About teaching. About_ everything _, really._

And it wasn’t as if she was completely confident about the _absolutely mental_ plan of making up a quest for three eleven-year-olds and making sure it was, as Severus Snape had said, _a very small and very_ safe _quest_. But somehow, she felt better about what was unquestionably a completely unorthodox and probably inappropriate approach to her students than she had about any of her classes, even the successful ones. Talking about it with Professor Snape, she’d felt for the first time like a member of staff, an equal to him and not just the former student he was determined to mould into a competent teacher.

It was the only subject they’d managed to discuss without the conversation somehow being poisoned by his bitter sarcasm or his grudges. For a few moments, she’d been able to forget that he was Professor Snape, terror of the dungeons, and he’d just been —

_A friend_.

Hermione gave herself a mental shake. Harry was a friend. Ginny was a friend.  Ron, thankfully, was once again a friend.

_Severus Snape is a colleague at most._ She couldn’t imagine him _ever_ having friends, let alone being one of his friends herself.

The swooping owls with the morning post broke into her train of thought. A copy of the latest issue of _Transatlantic Potions_ dropped next to Hermione’s plate and she picked it up, making a mental note to make sure not to leave it in her room. _Professor Snape will be interested in it, too_.

“Oh, good,” Luna said happily. “Daddy found them!”

“Crumple-horned snorkacks?” Neville asked, but kindly.

“No, we won’t get another chance to look for them before Christmas,” Luna said. She showed them an open envelope, the edges of a photograph showing. “He found these. They’re from 1984. I can’t tell you what’s in them until later, though.”

“Clubhouse after dinner,” Harry said. “I was going to suggest it, anyway.”

Hermione didn’t have time, during the day, to think any more about the Quidditch Key. She tried a little unobtrusive eavesdropping on the Terrible Trio during her first year class, to see if she could pick up any clues on the sort of things that interested them and might make good challenges for their quest, but they were focused on their brewing and barely said a word that wasn’t related to the lesson.

She smiled at her own frustration. _I ought to be delighted at their diligence — as their teacher, I should take it as a compliment._

Lunch was again, despite the promise Professor Snape had extracted from her, sandwiches at her office desk as she ploughed through still more marking. She had accepted — she had been _forced to_ accept — that she couldn’t give every single essay the kind of detailed reading and critique she was used to giving to Harry and Ron’s homework. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to dismiss any student’s entire work at the first mistake, the way Professor Snape did.

She sighed, dipped her quill, and wrote _Although you have accurately described the stages of brewing, I can_ _’t assign a grade to this essay as your confusion between wormwood and woodfern renders the rest nonsense. Redo, resubmit._

The afternoon allowed for no more time for thought than the morning had, and by the time Colin Aitkins appeared to serve his detention, Hermione was once again having second thoughts about her plan. 

She had decided to take inspiration from something Professor Snape had once done to Harry for this evening’s detention — _minus the personal grudge and the cruelty, of course_.

“Mr Aitkins,” she said, pointing to a box set on one of the desks. “It’s come to my attention that some of the classroom records have fallen out of order. This evening, you will organise them by date, with the most recent at the front, and the oldest at the back.”

“Yes, Professor,” he said, and quickly took a seat, lifting out a mass of records.

Hermione kept an eye on him as she pretended to be completely absorbed in her marking. She had to suppress a smile at his first gasp of horror: the records she had carefully disordered were the accident reports the Potions Professor was required to fill in whenever a student injured themselves or others with a brewing error, inside the classroom or out of it.

She’d carefully extracted the one bearing her own name dated 1993, and it was tucked beneath her pile of marking. Remembering the incident was bad enough. _There_ _’s no way I’m going to read what Professor Snape must have said about it._

But there were far more dramatic and damaging incidents in the pile Colin was working his way through. Hilda Metherson, who in 1987 had chanced her arm at brewing a love potion and sent the object of her crush to St Mungo’s for three months. _I can only conclude that he had a lucky escape,_ Snape had written. Jonas Jefferson, who in 1976 had attempted Liquid Luck and levelled his dormitory in the resulting explosion. _Sadly, we are still looking for Mr Jefferson_ _’s left leg_ , Slughorn had noted.    

If reading through the accounts of what had happened to previous students who thought themselves ready to brew complicated potions on their own didn’t sober Colin Aitkins, Hermione wasn’t sure what would.

Behind Colin, the classroom door swung open, as pushed by a breeze. _Except, as Professor Snape pointed out himself, there_ _’s no bloody breezes down here._

Hermione waited, and after a moment, out of Colin’s sight, a jar on one of the shelves turned slightly and moved to be in more precise alignment with its neighbours. _Fine. At least he_ _’s announced himself._

She got up and went to close the door. “How are you going with those, Mr Aitkins?”

“Almost done,” he mumbled, looking a bit green. Hermione passed by him on her way back to her desk and glanced over his shoulder. _Mathilda Forrest, 1983._ That had been a nasty one: Snape’s handwriting had been particularly dark and jagged as he wrote _The frogs should cease to emerge from her orifices within three weeks, a wholly inadequate consequence for her arrogance and ignorance._

“Mr Aitkins,” Hermione said. “I think you’re clever enough to understand why I asked _you_ to assist with my filing.”

He gulped, and nodded. “To make me think twice.”

Hermione hooked the nearest stool towards her with her foot and sat down. “You did promise me that you’d come and ask before doing anything mad, you know.”

Colin blinked at her. “It had nothing to do with the Restricted Section!”

Hermione sighed, and pinched the bridge of her nose for a few seconds. “Mr Aitkins. Extrapolating from what I said about the Restricted Section to the subject of stealing potions ingredients for illicit brewing, what do you think you should have done?”

“It’s not brewing,” he said quickly. “Really, it isn’t, and we have permission.”

Hermione felt her eyebrows rise in what was almost a Snape-like manner. “To thieve from the storeroom?”

He looked away. “Well, no, not that.”

“If you’re not brewing —” Hermione stopped herself saying _Hair Raising Potion_ , reflecting that it was probably better not to give him any ideas he hadn’t already come up with. “Then what do you want the ingredients for?”

“An infusion. Madam Lovegood said —” Colin faltered to a halt.

From the apparently empty side of the classroom, Hermione distinctly heard Professor Snape snort.

“And why did you ask Madam Lovegood and not me?” Hermione asked. She waited, but Colin only looked at his hands in silence. “Was it, maybe, because you thought you’d be more likely to get the answer you wanted?”

“Partly,” Colin admitted miserably. “But also because she was there, in the Library.” 

“And what were you looking up, in the Library?”

“Stuff,” Colin said.

_Stuff_. It had been twelve years, and Hermione had forgotten how remarkably uncommunicative eleven-year-olds could be, when they chose to be. Part of her longed to raise an eyebrow and say _Stuff, Mr Aitkins? How remarkably precise of you_ , exactly as Snape would have done.

Instead, she simply looked at him steadily. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

“Broom handle polish,” he admitted in a whisper.

“Broom handle — why on earth not just order it like everybody else?”

“We found a recipe. Maisie said it would be better than anything we could order. And she could be a Beater, on the Hufflepuff team, you know, except her broom … it’s not fast enough.”

_Well, that answers one question — they_ _’ll definitely be interested in the Quidditch Key._

Just as Snape had predicted.

 

 

 


	38. Chapter 38: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape and Hermione discuss "stuff", and then the Quibbler comes through

“ _Stuff_ ,” Snape said with acid contempt, and Hermione laughed, partly at the incongruity of hearing Severus Snape at his most Snape-ish while the man himself remained invisible. She crossed to the door and bolted it.

When she turned, he had removed the cloak. “You should have made the boy _copy_ those reports, not just read them.”

“That would take more detentions than I’m prepared to supervise,” Hermione said. She picked up the box of records and carried it to her desk.

Snape followed her. “I’m … _surprised_ at your lack of dedication.”

“No, you’re disapproving of my lack of disciplinary enthusiasm.” Hermione picked up the report on her own misadventure that she’d removed before letting Colin loose on the files.

Snape plucked it from her hand. “As I said.” He studied the parchment, and the corner of his mouth turned up slightly. “Professor Granger, if I’d know you would treasure this so, I would have made sure you received a copy on graduation.”

“I’m not _treasuring_ it,” Hermione said. “I didn’t think letting a student read it would be particularly conducive to the lesson I wanted to impart.”

A spark of what might have been humour lit his dark eyes. “Knowing their teacher got up to far worse than infusing broom handle polish in her own time as a student.”

“Exactly,” Hermione said. Honesty forced her to add, “That, and knowing they’d be picturing me with ears and tail for the next few months.”

“Minerva is the only teacher I’ve known to be able to carry that off without a loss of dignity.” It was definitely humour in his eyes, and he was almost smiling. He glanced down at the parchment. “Miss Granger has undertaken —”

“I don’t need to hear it,” Hermione interrupted, feeling her cheeks grow hot. “I can imagine what you thought —”

“A most ambitious illicit project, to wit, brewing Polyjuice Potion,” Snape continued smoothly, as if she hadn’t spoken. “This advanced Potion has defeated many a N.E.W.T student. Granger’s unfortunate current condition is undoubtedly caused by the use of cat hair instead of human hair, an error I am certain she will not make again.”

“Yes, alright,” Hermione said.

“The fact that the Polyjuice Potion had any effect at all,” Snape continued, “with the addition of animal hair, is testament to impeccable brewing on Granger’s part, particularly noteworthy given the clandestine nature and no-doubt suboptimal facilities. While the theft of supplies from the school storage-room deserves severe punishment, it is the inescapable conclusion that the theft itself was carried out by Potter, and that Granger’s participation was due to his bad influence alone. Therefore, given the length of time it will take to return Granger to her normal appearance, I recommend no further disciplinary action.”

Her gaze flicked up from the page to meet hers, and his eyebrow lifted slightly. “As I said. It was remiss of me not to make sure you received a copy on your graduation.”

 “It was actually me,” Hermione said, smiling a little. “Who stole the ingredients. And who hatched the whole plan.”

Snape’s eyebrow raised a little more. “You have hidden depths. I suppose I should have realised. It would have been _most unlike_ Potter and Weasley to listen in class.”

“Harry did throw the firework,” Hermione said.

“A shame I can no longer have him expelled,” Snape said. He held out the report. “For your files, Professor Granger.”

She took it, unable to resist a quick glance to see if he’d in truth read it accurately. _Ambitious .. impeccable brewing_ _… suboptimal facilities …_ all in Snape’s familiar angular writing. “I think this is the nicest thing you’ve ever given me.”

“The fate of the teacher,” Snape said, scowling at her. “To have six years of marking your _excessively_ _long_ essays comprehensively disregarded.”

Hermione laughed, thinking of some of the efforts of her own students, especially the Ravenclaws. “I won’t apologise for the Polyjuice Potion,” she said, “because that was a really good idea. I _will_ , however, apologise for every essay that was so much as a line over the requested length.”

“All of them, then,” Snape said. Despite his frown, Hermione was certain she could still see a hint of humour in his expression. “The apology is unnecessary, Professor Granger. Your work was less painful to mark than most.”

It was almost a compliment. _By Severus Snape_ _’s standards, it probably_ is _a compliment._ _“_ Thank you,” Hermione said.

He sketched the slightest inclination toward a bow, little more than a movement of his hand and the inclination of his head, and Hermione was suddenly acutely aware that if they failed to find the cause of the Dark curse Snape bore on his arm, she would lose more than the chance to make right her failure of five years ago. She would lose the pleasant surprise of puzzling through an insult to find the compliment wrapped inside it; she would lose being ambushed by amusement when Snape took his acid contempt for the entire world one minute shade into self-parody; she would lose the enjoyment of intellectual fencing with a mind as sharp and nimble as her own.

“Granger?” Snape asked, and Hermione realised she was staring at him in silence.

“Sorry,” she said, forcing herself to smile. “Just thinking about the Quidditch Key. But I’ve got to dash, I’m sorry — I promised Harry, I’d, uh — do something.”

“By all means,” Snape said, and the humour, the hint of camaraderie, was gone from his voice. “You mustn’t keep Professor Potter waiting.”

Hermione felt oddly like weeping as she hurried upstairs to the Room of Requirement.

She was the last to arrive, slipping into the empty chair with a muttered apology.

I was just saying that we need to regroup,” Harry said. “Let’s run through what we know. Hermione?”

She sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything helpful to say. I’ve been through the whole list of Death Eaters recorded as killed at the Battle of Hogwarts and every single one was witnessed. No-one’s unaccounted for.”

Harry nodded. “And I heard back from Kingsley this afternoon,” he said. “They’re closing the investigation into my ‘anonymous tip’. They’re absolutely positive that no-one who ever took the Dark Mark escaped the net. Which means we can be sure that it’s not a Death Eater actually casting the curse,” Harry said.

The rest of them sighed or groaned, except for Luna, who sat regarding Harry mild interest.

“I’m sorry, everybody, but it isn’t. Not a secret one, not one everyone thinks is dead. There’s no Death Eater unaccounted for.”

“It might be time to call in the Ministry,” Ron said.

“No!” Hermione jumped to her feet.

“Hermione,” Ron said reasonably. “You know what this means. It has to be someone with access to the Death Eaters in Azkaban. Kingsley _has_ to know.”

“And what if they still can’t find out who it is?” Hermione cried. “Do you want Professor Snape to spend what time he has left on trial?”

“Do _you_ want to keep secret the fact that one of the Aurors assigned to Azkaban is an active practitioner of the Dark Arts?” Ron shot back. “Because apart from the fact that it would be the end of my brilliant career when it came out, keeping dark wizards secret is about as clever as going for a midnight swim with the Giant Squid.”

Luna frowned. “I don’t think that’s quite right, Ron,” she said. “Because swimming in the Black Lake at night is actually quite fun, and —”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Harry said. “I agree with Ron. It would be one thing if we knew who it was, and could sort of arrange to find out some other way.”

“But we do know who it is,” Luna said in mild surprise. “Don’t we?”

There was a small silence, and then Ginny said with calm patience, “ _You_ might know who it is, Luna. But the rest of us have no idea.”

“Oh, that’s right, I haven’t shown you Daddy’s pictures,” Luna said. She produced the envelope she’d received in the morning mail from her robe. “Here.”

She handed it to Harry, who opened it and took out five photographs. “Professor Snape,” he said, studying the first one and then passing it to Neville. “So is this — and this —” He leafed through the others rapidly. “Luna, it’s five copies of the same photograph. Of Professor Snape watching Quidditch.”

“No, it isn’t,” Luna said patiently. “When people take photographs for newspapers they take several, all in a row, to make sure they get a good one. I saw _that_ —” She pointed to the photograph Neville was now handing to Ginny, “on the front page of _The Prophet_ for a story about Professor Snape. The story is rubbish, of course, but I wondered about the photograph, so I owled Daddy and asked him if he could find the photographer and get copies of _all_ the pictures she took that day.” She smiled at them all. “And he did.”

“Right, well,” Harry said, “I’m afraid I still don’t have a clue who’s cursed Professor Snape and these photographs don’t tell me anything, so you’ll have to explain.”

Luna sighed. “Hand them here, then,” she said. Once all the photographs were in her hand, she tapped them with her wand. “Commeditor Projectura!”

A thin stream of blue light rose from the photographs toward the point of her wand. Luna turned a little and directed her wand at the blank wall. Another beam of light shone out from it, and on the wall —

“Blimey, Luna, you’ve invented wizarding movies!” Harry said.

“It was Professor Burbage who gave me the idea,” Luna said. “In class? She talked about how Muggles made pictures move by taking lots of them and running through them very fast. When I saw her in the picture, it just popped into my head.”

“In the picture?” Neville asked, craning to see.

“There.” Lune nodded towards the wall that was now doubling as a screen. “Beside Professor Snape.”

Hermione peered at the picture. It had been taken on a cold day, and the person sitting next to Snape was so thoroughly wrapped in cloak and muffler Hermione couldn’t even be sure it was a witch, let alone which witch. Snape, on the other hand, was dressed as he usually did. _Either his warming charms work better than mine, or, more likely, he_ _’d rather be cold than undignified._

The image jumped suddenly. “Oops, sorry,” Luna said. “They’ve gotten shuffled.” She rearranged the photographs in her left hand. “There. I’ll go back to the beginning.”

“Yes, thank you, but Luna, what exactly are we looking at?” Hermione asked.

“Just watch,” Luna said serenely.

Hermione turned her attention back to the images. Professor Snape, looking so much younger than she’d ever seen him that the picture had to date from his early years teaching, stared away from the photographer, intent on the game.  The rugged-up person beside him leaned sideways a little, nudging his shoulder with their own. Snape turned, said something —

And the person beside him doubled up with laughter. As she straightened, her muffler slipped down, and Hermione instantly recognised her as a much-younger Charity Burbage, nose red with cold. Still laughing, she shook her head and replied to Snape, trying to adjust her scarf with mittened hands. He turned to look down at her as he answered, and then —

“Bloody hell,” Ron said, as Snape-on-screen deftly adjusted Charity’s scarf to warp her warmly once again. “Looks like he got over your mum a lot faster than anyone thought, Harry.”

“Oh, I don’t think they were lovers,” Luna said as the images reverted back to the beginning and began to play again. “He’s very careful to only touch her scarf.”

“Madam Hooch — Rolanda, I mean, she talked as if they were friends,” Ginny said. “Professor Snape and Professor Burbage.”

“That’s what I think too,” Luna said. On the screen, Charity Burbage burst out laughing again. “Friends for a long time, because these were taken in 1985.”

Hermione watched as Professor Snape again drew up Charity’s scarf so it protected her cold-reddened nose. “Well, that’s —” _mind-boggling_ “interesting, but I don’t understand how it tells us who cast the curse.”

“July,” Harry said abruptly.

“Yes, exactly,” Luna said with a smile. She lowered her wand and the moving pictures flickered out.

“I’m glad you two have worked it out,” Neville said, “but I’m going to need a little more to go on.”

“Professor Burbage was murdered by Tom Riddle in July,” Harry explained. “July, 1997. Professor Snape was there.”

“He gave you _that_ memory?” Ginny sounded nauseated.

Harry shook his head. “I’ve seen the list the Ministry got from the Malfoys. Point is, if they _were_ friends, Charity and Professor Snape, people who knew her probably knew that, right? And while it’s bloody obvious there wasn’t anything he could do to stop Voldemort killing her, it might not look that way to everyone.”

“Hold on,” Hermione said, remembering something she’d read in her research for updating _Hogwarts: A History_. She scrabbled in her bag until her fingers closed on her notebook. Dragging it out, she flicked pages. “Charity Burbage, born January 1956, started at Hogwarts in 1967, Hufflepuff.  Graduated 1974, spent two years as a student at the Guildhall School of Music and Drama and then read Fine Art at Oxford.” Ron circled his finger in a ‘get on with it’ gesture and Hermione glared at him. “First hired to teach Muggle Studies at Hogwarts in 1982, left the position in 1987. Returned in 1993. That’s when _we_ knew her.” Ron opened his mouth and Hermione sighed. “I’m getting to it, Ron! Died, July 1997. _Survived by_ her sister, Patience Monkshod nee Burbage, and her nephew —”

“Matthew Monkshod,” Neville said, and Hermione nodded. “Second year, Slytherin House.”

“Merlin’s meaty member!” Ron said.  “A relative of _Charity Burbage_ sorted into Slytherin?  That Hat has lost it.”

“That’s not the point, Ron!” Hermione said impatiently.

“I know it’s not the point, alright? The point is that Charity Burbage’s nephew has spent the last year in the dungeons and is as likely a person as anyone to see Snape —”

“Professor Snape,” Harry corrected.

“ _Severus_ , because I’m a bloody Professor myself now. To see _Severus_ flitting about, and to go home and tell his mum that the man who sat there and watched her sister die is alive and well.”

“That is the point, yes,” Hermione said.

Ron grinned at her. “Always the tone of surprise.”

“That still doesn’t get us past the Death Eater problem,” Ginny said. “I mean, if it _is_ Charity’s sister, how’s she doing it?”

“Is she even a witch?” Harry asked.

Hermione shrugged. “I don’t know, but it would be easy to find out. But the point is, whether she’s a witch or not, she’s obviously aware of the wizarding world because of her sister, and her son. Someone could be helping her, someone at Azkaban. Someone _must_ be, unless she’s one of the Aurors at Azkaban herself.”

“That takes us back to someone in the Aurors doing Dark Magic,” Harry said. “We’ve _got_ to report it.”

“But you said, if we could work out who it was, we could discover them some other way,” Hermione pointed out. “Now we  have a clue who it is.”

“But it’s just a _clue_ , Hermione.” Harry raked his fingers through his hair. “ _If_ it’s Professor Burbage’s sister, then finding out which Aurors she knows well enough to ask for a favour, a favour _this_ big, that’s a huge operation. It’s not something we can do between us, even if we _weren_ _’t_ trying to fit it in between teaching.”

“We could —”

“Hermione,” Ron said firmly. “There’s no way we could pull it off between us. You don’t know —”

“Because I’m not an Auror?”

“Yes, because you’re not an Auror,” Harry said. “It’s not — Hermione, I’m sorry, but it’s not like it was at school. It takes loads of people, working together, around the clock watches —”

Hermione found herself on her feet. “You just don’t —”

Harry stood as well, facing her. “It’s just not as simple now as it was when we were bloody twelve, is it?”

“No!” Hermione put her hands on his chest and pushed, hard enough to send him backwards a step. “Back then we all did whatever _you_ decided we ought to! It’s not that simple now, not nearly!”

“I think —” Luna said.

“Calm down, Hermione,” Ron said.

“Don’t you dare!” Hermione turned to face him. “Don’t you dare tell _me_ to calm down, Ron Weasley! _I_ _’m_ not the one who threw a tantrum in the middle of —”

“Enough!” Harry bellowed. He’d developed quite the authoritative roar in his years as an Auror, and Hermione and Ron both fell silent. “Enough, both of you,” he went on in a more moderate tone. “Ron and I aren’t trying to boss you around for the sake of it, Hermione.  We’ve been _part_ of operations like the one that’s needed here, watching witches and wizards suspected of something. Even if all six of us dropped everything and devoted all our time to it, we wouldn’t have enough people to be sure we’d get a result. And we don’t have any way to monitor her Floo, or read her mail, but the Ministry can and will do that.”

“I think that —” Luna said.

Hermione put her hands on her hips. “You do realise that Professor Snape would rather die than have the Ministry, or anyone else, know he’s alive?”

“It’s not up to him, not any more.” Harry took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I really _should_ have told Kingsley that it was at least a possibility right at the beginning. I just didn’t want to believe it could be true.” He put his glasses back on and shrugged. “An Auror, a colleague, one of us, using dark magic? It _should_ be impossible.”

“It’s not like they’ve gone full Death Eater, though, is it?” Neville said. “I mean, they think they’re getting at a Death Eater, don’t they? If they’re helping Professor Burbage’s sister.”

Harry shook his head. “It’s not like that, though. Casting a killing curse — it does something to you. You know how much you have to _mean_ magic. You can’t cast Expelliarmus properly unless you really want to disarm someone. That’s why the Dark Arts are dangerous — because you have to reach into your own dark places to use them, and you have to nurture that darkness and make it stronger to use them effectively.”

“And a killing curse,” Ron said, “one strong enough that even Snape — alright Harry, _Professor_ Snape — can’t stop it, that’s well bloody along that road.”

“Oh.” Hermione sat down again, twisting her fingers together. “And someone like that, in Azkaban …”

Ron nodded “That’s it. They might be telling themselves that they’re doing it for all the right reasons, but just _trying_ to do it would change a person. Pulling it off … let’s just say I don’t want that kind of person in charge of making sure Voldemort’s loyal servants don’t get loose.”

“Listen to me!” Luna said, in what was, for Luna, almost a shout. “Why don’t you just ask Patience Monkshod?”

“That’s bloody brilliant, Luna,” Ron said. 

“She won’t tell us —” Hermione objected.

Ron grinned at her. “She won’t need to. Hermione, think. Are we wizards, or what?”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve made up certain details about Charity Burbage’s past and private life, including the date of her birth, her Hogwarts House, the fact that she was at Hogwarts as a teacher in the 1980s, and her family.


	39. Chapter 39: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luna's brilliant plan hits a crucial snag …

“I don’t think it will work,” Harry said. “I mean, no question Hermione’s good enough at Obliviating to make sure she won’t remember enough to tip off any accomplices, but I’m nowhere near the kind of Legilimens I’d need to be so as to be absolutely certain I’ll understand what I see.”

“I could brew some Veritaserum, but it will take a month,” Hermione said. “And we can’t know whether she’d be resistant, either.”

“Harry, you’re not thinking properly,” Luna said patiently. “It doesn’t matter whether you can use Legilimency at all, does it, because Professor Snape certainly can.”

“If we got her address, we could Floo somewhere nearby,” Harry said slowly. “Once I find a good Apparition spot, I could come back and take Professor Snape side-along.”

Luna nodded. “He’s got your cloak, after all. He can just walk to the gate.”

“I don’t know if he can use Legilimency without taking it off, though, when we get there,” Harry said. “I shouldn’t think so.”

“I don’t think he’d mind, would he? Since the whole point is that Patience Monkshod already knows he’s alive,” Luna said. “And it’s not like she’ll remember it, after.”

Harry took out his map. “I solemnly swear I am up to no good,” he said, and studied it. “Professor Snape is in his rooms. Awake, by the looks of it. I can ask him now. If he agrees, I’ll hold off Flooing Kingsley until we try and get a name from Patience Monkshod.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Hermione asked.

“You know that I’ll have to tell Kingsley everything,” Harry said gently. “I’ll ask him to keep it to himself, and I think he will if he can, but he might not be able to.”

Hermione bit her lip. “Let me talk to him,” she said.

Harry shook his head. “It should be me. After all, I’m going to be the one who’s going to shop him to Kingsley if it comes to that.”

Neville grinned at them both. “If you’d told me twelve years ago that one day the two of you would be arguing over the privilege of talking to Professor Snape, I would have said you were barking.”

“We could both go,” Hermione said. “It’s just … he talks to me about my teaching, most days. He’s almost civil. I think I’d have more chance of persuading him.”

“Than the man who looks like James Potter?” Harry nodded. “Come on, then. It won’t get easier if we put it off.

As they made their way down to the dungeons Harry glanced occasionally at the map to check whether or not Snape had left his quarters. Hermione was uncomfortably aware that he spent more time studying her, a slight frown wrinkling his forehead.

“What?” she snapped at last, as they passed the ground floor and kept on down the stairs.

“You’re not making S— _someone_ one of your causes, are you, Hermione?”

“That’s a bit rich, since it looks like we all have, haven’t we?”

“We all know what we owe him, and we all want to help him, but, Hermione, it’s not like you to jump down my throat like that, or have a go at Ron the way you did.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Hermione said. “I’m just — not sleeping well.” She made herself smile. “Too much marking.”

“Is that all?” Harry’s green eyes were bright with concern. “It’s not … coming back here, or anything? Stirring things up?”

“I was here for a full year after you and Ron went to the Ministry,” Hermione pointed out. 

“Not a good year, though, was it?” Harry said.

Hermione shivered, although the corridor wasn’t all that cold. She’d made more than a few Floo calls from the Gryffindor common room at three in the morning, chased from sleep by dreams of _Look at me_ _…_ Neither Harry nor Ron had ever commented, except a casual _Can_ _’t you sleep either?_ but Hermione knew she would have found that first year after the war utterly unbearable without them to talk to. “I don’t think it was Hogwarts itself that made it bad,” she said. “I think it was bad for a lot of us, wherever we were.”

“And now?” Harry asked.

Hermione rubbed her arm, feeling her scar tingle. “Now it’s like, we have a second chance, a chance to fix something that went wrong. I know you keep saying that there wasn’t anything we could do to help him, back then, but there is now, isn’t there?”

“And we are.”

“Not in the way he’d want, not if you go to Kingsley. He’ll hate it.” _He_ _’ll hate me_. Why it should matter to her so much, Severus Snape’s opinion of her, Hermione wasn’t sure. _He gave every impression of hating me for six years of schooling, after all, and I didn_ _’t let it bother me_.

“I won’t, unless he forces me,” Harry said. They were at the door to the old Potion Master’s Quarters. He took out his wand and cast a quick _Homenum Revelio_. “Nobody nearby.”

Her stomach twisting with something that was almost dread, Hermione knocked on Snape’s door.

After a moment, the door opened, apparently by itself. Hermione exchanged a glance with Harry, and then, remembering the Invisibility Cloak, took a cautious step forward, hands a little outstretched in case Snape was in fact standing right there in concealment.

Her fingers met only empty air and she moved further along a short corridor. Harry followed, closing the door behind them.

“Professor Snape?” Hermione called, but quietly. A few more steps took her to another door. “It’s me, Hermione. And Harry.”

That door swung open soundlessly, spilling a dazzle of lamp-and-firelight across the threshold.

“I am not so far into my dotage as to be unable to identify who is at my door,” Snape said from somewhere unseen in the room.

Hermione swallowed hard and stepped inside.

As her eyes adjusted to the light, she could see that the room was very similar to the one he’d inhabited during his sojourn in the Room of Requirement. Thick rugs covered the stone flags of the dungeon floor, and every possible space around the walls held a bookcase — there were even shelves crammed with books and scrolls above the doors. A fire crackled merrily on the hearth, and before it, Snape sat in the room’s single armchair, long legs stretched out towards the flames.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Snape gave the last word a sarcastic twist.

“We, ah, that is —” Hermione stopped, and Harry elbowed her in the side. “We think we know why, and how, you’re being, well. Cursed.”

Snape didn’t move, but something changed in his face, a sharpening of attention. “Oh? You’ve succeeded where the Ministry failed? Found the Death Eater they missed?”

Hermione shook her head. “Not exactly. It’s pretty clear that there isn’t one. That the curse must be being cast through the Dark Mark of someone we already know about.”

The corners of his mouth turned down. “I told you, it isn’t the Malfoys.”

“And I believe you.” _Merlin_ _’s pants, I wish there were more chairs_. It was absolutely typical of Snape, of course, that he wouldn’t have bothered with furnishings for the guests he no doubt never had, but it left Hermione standing in front of him with her hands clasped, feeling far more like a schoolgirl addressing her Professor than she was comfortable with.

As if he’d read her mind, Harry said cheerfully, “Mind if I add a couple of chairs, sir? This is probably going to take more than a few minutes.”

Snape inclined his head slightly. “Since I doubt I could stop you if I was so inclined, go ahead, Potter. As you always do.”

“Thanks.” Harry produced his wand and a moment later he and Hermione were sitting in chairs similar to Snape’s own. “The thing is, if it isn’t the Malfoys and it isn’t someone unknown, it has to be one of the Death Eaters in Azkaban. None of them could _cast_ the curse, not without help, but if someone with access to them was _using_ them …”

One eyebrow lifted. “Are you telling me that one of the Ministry’s Aurors is less than a paragon of virtue? I’m shocked, Potter, truly shocked.”

“Well, _I_ _’m_ shocked,” Harry said frankly. “And appalled, at the implications. The kind of feelings you’d need to wallow in, to do _that_ —” A wave of his hand in the general direction of Snape’s left arm. “That’s pretty dangerous. And to be doing that, surrounded by Death Eaters, even if their magic is bound …”

“Do tell me more about the Dark Arts,” Snape said silkily. “I prepare myself to be amazed by the breadth and depth of your no-doubt extensive knowledge.”

 Hermione winced. _It was a bad idea to let Harry come at all._ “Professor Snape —”

“Don’t do that,” Harry said, speaking over her to Snape. “I don’t mind it, but you’re upsetting Hermione.”

Snape’s dark gaze flicked to Hermione, and then away again. “Say what you’ve come to say, then,” he told the flames in the fireplace. “Although I suspect Professor Granger’s skin is thicker than you think.” The slight emphasis he put on _skin_ made Hermione instinctively put her hand over her scar.

“The point is, we think we have a good guess as to _why_ someone from the Ministry might have started trying to do something like this,” Harry said. “Professor Charity Burbage.”

Snape went very still, his gaze still on the fire. For a moment he didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t even seem to breathe. Finally, he looked back at Harry. “Is. Dead.”

Hermione nodded. “I know. We know. But she had a sister, you see, and a nephew, and the nephew started at Hogwarts last year —”

“Matthew Monkshod, Slytherin House,” Snape said evenly.

Hermione blinked “You knew?” she asked, and then, at Snape’s slight nod, “Did you speak to him, too?”

“And why would I be so foolish?” Snape sneered at her.

“Because you and his aunt were friends,” Hermione said. “Weren’t you? You might have wanted —”

In a single sharp movement, Snape was on his feet and turning away from both of them to poke the fire. “Sentimentality has never been one of my vices.”

_Says the man who loved a dead woman for twenty years._ “We think he found out about you, somehow. Perhaps he saw you in the dungeons, if he was out after hours, or something. And told his mother. And she —”

The fire was blazing, but Snape prodded it again with the poker. “Blames me for her sister’s death. As she should.”

“I’ve read the accounts by all three of the Malfoys about that night,” Harry said. “There really wasn’t anything you could have done.”

“It explains why the curse started in July,” Hermione said. “If it’s about Professor Burbage. She died in —”

“I’m aware of when Charity Burbage died.” Snape’s voice was almost a growl.

“The thing is, if one of the Azkaban guards is doing it for her —” _Harry feels he needs to tell the Ministry_. No. That was cowardly. _Un-Gryffindor._ “Then the Ministry needs to know.”

Snape swung around, looking down at them. His fingers flexed on the poker. “So much,” he said, very low, “for Gryffindor promises.”

“ _I_ didn’t promise you anything,” Harry said. “And it’s my decision, if we can’t find out who it is any other way.”

With great deliberation, Snape placed the poker back in the rack. “You have uncovered me, against my wishes. You have pried and spied into my life, without my permission. And now you propose to expose me to the world and the tender mercies of the Ministry. Is it your ambition to make me bitterly regret each and every occasion on which I _saved_ your _life_?”

“There’s one other thing we could do,” Hermione said. “But we can’t do it without you. We could go and see Patience Monkshod, Professor Burbage’s sister, and ask her —”

“No,” Snape said.

“But you see, with Legilimency you could —”

“ _No!_ ” It was close to a shout, and Hermione couldn’t help drawing back a little as Snape leaned down towards her. “If Patience wants her revenge on me, she deserves to have it! The _last_ thing she deserves is to have her privacy destroyed, her thoughts searched. I won’t do it. Do you understand me? I — will —  not.”

  “If you can think of a different way to find out if she’s conspiring with an Auror, sir, I’m all ears,” Harry said. “But at the moment, that’s the only plan I’ve got that doesn’t involve the Ministry. And you must know that if there’s an Auror involved, I can’t just leave it.” He paused. “Even if I was going to let you die, which I’m not, not if I can help it.”

 “You may be the famous Harry Potter,” Snape said bitterly, “but I think you’ll find that neither death, nor I, are compelled by your command.”

Harry stood up. “Look. I’ll leave you to think it over. Twenty-four hours, and then, unless you’ll help us get answers from Patience Monkshod, I’m Flooing Kingsley.”

Hermione got to her feet as well. “I’m sorry, Professor,” she said. “I know that — I understand how you feel.”

“I doubt it,” he said sourly, without looking at her.

She sighed, and turned to follow Harry back down the short corridor to the door that led to the main dungeon corridor. She was almost at the door when Snape spoke again.

“How is your arm?”

“It’s fine.” Hermione rubbed her scar automatically.

Snape frowned. “You’re taking the potion?”

“Hermione?” Harry called from the corridor.

“Sec, Harry,” Hermione called back, and to Snape, “Yes, I’m taking it, and it’s helping.”

“Show me.”

Behind her, Hermione heard Harry coming back up the corridor. “Hermione?”

Hermione put her hand on her sleeve, holding it in place rather than pushing it up. “It’s just my scar,” she told Harry. “Professor Snape brewed a potion for it.”

Harry frowned. “Your scar from —?”

_Crucio!_ Hermione flinched, and nodded.

Harry’s frown deepened. “I thought that was gone ages ago.”

“It’s — just — a — scar,” Hermione said between gritted teeth. Harry reached for her sleeve and she jerked her arm away. “Leave it, Harry!”

“I think perhaps you should respect Professor Granger’s wishes,” Snape said. He and Harry exchanged a glance that Hermione couldn’t read. “So long as she continues to take the potion, the matter is … not urgent.”

“Good,” Hermione snapped. “ _Thanks._ ”

She turned on her heel, pushed past Harry, and stomped down the corridor.


	40. Chapter 40: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione confronts an unpleasant truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: chapter contains recollections of canon-typical violence.

 

_“Look … at … me.” No more than a whisper between lips blanched almost white by blood-loss._

_Blood-Replenishing Potion — essence of dittany — a bezoar —   Hermione knows she has all three in her bag, she can save Severus Snape_ _’s life, if she can only —_

_Her fingers scrabble uselessly against the carpet as she strains for it, but with Bellatrix Lestrange kneeling on her arm, the bag and the life-saving measures it contains might as well be miles away, not mere inches._ _“Please … please …”_

_“The mudblood has some manners,” Bellatrix sneers._

_And the knife, flashing silver in the dim light, and searing pain, and her blood thundering in her ears saying_ mudblood, mudblood, mudblood _… deep inside, she’s afraid it’s true, because she isn’t strong enough to get free, she might be clever but there’s more to magic than memorisation, there’s sheer raw strength of talent, and she doesn’t have it,_ mudblood, mudblood, mudblood _…_

_Snape_ _’s hand falls lifeless to the floor._

“No!” Hermione howled, and found herself bolt upright in her bed, throat aching as if she’d screamed aloud and not just in her dream. _Crucio! and the smell of blood and she_ _’s lost control of her bladder and Bellatrix sneers down at her. Filthy little mudblood … and the knife, and the pain —_

Hermione flung back the covers and scrambled out of bed, as if she could put physical distance between herself and the memory. Her pyjamas were soaked with sweat, cold against her skin. She yanked them off and, stumbling a little, hurried into the bathroom where she turned the shower to hot.

_A dream. A memory. Not real, not now, not true,_ she chanted silently, standing under the warm spray.  It had not happened, not like that. She hadn’t failed Severus Snape because she was too weak, but only because he had seemed so dead. She had not had what she would have needed to make a difference, not in the world outside her head.

Her arm ached, and she turned it so the water ran directly over the scar. _Not real, not now, not true_.

She scrubbed until she felt clean, and then stood under the water for another few minutes before she could bring herself to turn it off and step out. A glance at her watch showed her that it was just after three in the morning, but the thought of going back to bed and risking sleep made her stomach turn. Instead she pulled on jeans, a T-shirt and her favourite jumper, gave her hair a quick blast of Hot-Air Charm so it wasn’t actually dripping, and headed for her office.

_If there_ _’s one good thing about marking, it’s that you always have something to do._

She was half-way through an essay that she couldn’t decide was worth an _E_ or only an _A_ when the door opened, and then closed again. The bolt shot home.

“What happened to knocking?” she asked.

Severus Snape appeared, folding Harry’s cloak over his arm. “Mrs Norris,” he said sourly. “Prowling the corridor.”

Hermione couldn’t suppress a smile at the distaste in his voice. “I’ve always wondered about that cat,” she said. “I mean, she seems to be able to make Filch understand when she spots a student misbehaving, but he’s a Squib, so I don’t see how.”

“She is …” Snape  took a seat across from her without waiting to be asked with a flick of the skirts of his coat. He crossed his long legs. “ _Undoubtedly_ the brains of the operation.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. “Kneazle?”

“Demon,” Snape said, voice as dry as the Sahara, and Hermione surprised herself with a genuine chuckle. “Only the darkest magic is sufficient to explain that animal. Granger, if you are marking at this hour again …”

Hermione looked down at the essays in front of her. “I am,” she admitted, “but not because I had to. I couldn’t sleep.” She looked up again, expecting some dismissive remark, but Snape’s expression was … _on someone else, I_ _’d call that sympathy._

“I can brew you a Potion of Dreamless Sleep,” Snape said. “It wouldn’t help tonight, of course, but it would be ready by tomorrow evening.”

Hermione shook her head. “I can brew it myself,” she said. “Or ask Poppy Pomfrey.” She gave a wry smile. “I find I don’t enjoy the way I feel when I wake up.”

Snape nodded slowly. “Still. There are limits to human endurance — even that of Gryffindors.”

Hermione rubbed her scratchy eyes with the hand not holding her quill. “It’s not every night. Not even most nights. Just sometimes.”

“How is your arm?”

The question was soft and swift, the words carrying the rapid cadence of a spell, every syllable clear and crisp. Off-balance, Hermione felt her scar twinge at the unexpected reminder it existed, and rubbed it hard with the heel of her hand. “Fine. Except when you insist on reminding me of it.”

“What made you so reluctant to let Potter see it?” Snape asked, just as quiet, just as quick. “Does he not know?”

“That I have ‘mudblood’ carved on my arm?” Hermione snapped. “He knows.”

“And yet you hide it from him.” Snape frowned slightly. “May I see?”

“You’ve seen it,” Hermione reminded him.

“And prescribed a potion, the efficacy of which I wish to assess.” Snape looked at her, eyes dark and unreadable, face impassive, a harshly angular figure, black as night in the lamplight. “Please show me your arm, Professor Granger.”

Hermione nodded, and began to push up her sleeve. The old jumper she’d thrown on, however, didn’t have the broad sleeves she favoured now, and the cuff wouldn’t go up high enough.

Before she could lose her nerve, she dragged her jumper off over her head.

And _of course_ it caught in her tangled mane of hair, leaving her standing with her inside-out jumper over her arms and head, struggling and tugging.

“Granger, hold _still_.” Deft fingers yanked her jumper back down around her neck and Hermione had the sudden sight of Professor Snape disconcertingly close to her before he gathered her hair at the base of her neck and drew her jumper off in one smooth movement. “Ah, Muggle clothes,” he sneered, tossing it on her desk. “So much more practical and convenient.”

Hermione bit back a retort about the relative conveniences of pull-overs and coats with approximately three-hundred-and-eighteen buttons, since he’d just rescued her from the former. Under the jumper, she was wearing a T-shirt, and so simply held her arm out to him.

Snape took her wrist and turned her arm a little towards the light from the lamp. His expression was intent as he leaned closer to study the scar. It made Hermione’s stomach twist with discomfort, but that was nothing to the wave of uneasiness that swept over her when he ran the fingers of his other hand over the silver letters carved into her skin.

She jerked away from him. “Don’t!”

Snape released her wrist instantly and Hermione hugged her arm to her chest.

“Why are you ashamed, Professor Granger?” he asked quietly.

“I’m not,” Hermione said tightly. “I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

His dark eyes were steady on her face. “Is it me that you’re lying to, or yourself?”

_Crucio! and the pain, the pain and she wants to be brave but there is no way she can stop herself screaming, stop herself begging —_

_“Filthy little mudblood!”_

“I’m not lying!”

“You are,” Snape said flatly. “Granger, you have always been proud of your intellect. Exert it now. You feel shame. You are soaking in it, and yet, as you say, you have nothing to be ashamed of. So why, then?”

She looked up at him and then, an awful suspicion beginning to dawn, fixed her gaze on the top of her desk. “Are you using Legilimency against me?”

“No.” He was accomplished at deceit, she knew — he was only alive because of _how_ accomplished — but Hermione thought there was a ring of truth in his voice. _As if I_ _’d know,_ she chided herself, but still, she believed him. “Apply your mind, Granger. What did Bellatrix do to you, that you wear her scar still?”

“Crucio,” she said. _The carpet is thick with dust and crusted with old blood stains — pools, streaks, wide arterial sprays.  Hermione wonders if the house elves are in hiding or if it_ _’s just that Bellatrix Lestrange’s lust for victims exceeds their capacity to clean up after her._

_And then wonders nothing at all as the Cruciatus curse tears through her body, knotting every nerve in fiery agony._

_“Please, please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry …” The words tumble from her lips between the sobs she can’t control._

_“Filthy. Little. Mudblood!” Bellatrix is on top of her, now, and a new pain, focused, searing —_

“Granger. _Hermione_.” Snape had her by both shoulders.

As true as it’d been when she’d said _fine,_ now Hermione’s arm ached and burned as if Bellatrix was carving into it at that very second — she _was_ cutting into Hermione’s skin, now, then, forever —

“Sit.” There was a strong hand beneath her elbow and then something at the back of her knees. Hermione sank down and found herself sitting in Snape’s black armchair. He said something else, but she couldn’t understand it. She clutched her throbbing arm to her chest and curled around it, shrill cackling echoing in her ears —

A flask was at her lips. “Drink,” Snape said. It was the same potion he’d prepared for her, thick and bitter. She turned her face away after the first sip, but the flask followed. “Drink. All of it. If I have to hold your nose, Granger, I will.”

Hermione swallowed, swallowed again, and gritted her teeth as the disgusting stuff threatened to come straight back up again.

“And this.” Porcelain against her lips this time, and the taste of tea — bitter and black. It cleared the after-taste of the potion and cleared her head as well.

She opened her eyes to see Snape kneeling by her chair, and behind him, Tilney wringing her hands.

“Is Miss alright?” the house elf asked anxiously.

“I’m fine, Tilney,” Hermione assured her.

Tilney lingered until Snape gave her a nod, and then vanished.

“So this,” Snape said, soft and dangerous, “is what you term ‘ever so much better’.”

Hermione shook her head. “No. That hasn’t — that hasn’t happened for ages. I meant—” She looked down at her arm and then looked away. “The scarring. It’s much less. And it hardly ever hurts, and then not much.”

Snape stood up, looking very tall and black against the firelight. “And it occurred to none of the geniuses at St Mungo’s, or the Ministry, to whose hands you recommend I trust my life, that after this much time it ought not to hurt you at _all_?” He scowled down at her. “Merlin’s breath, Granger. You expect me to believe you capable of breaking my curse when you’re not even able to recognise your own?”

Hermione gaped up at him, and then looked back at her arm. “Curse? It isn’t — I mean, she used a knife.” _Silver, sharp, shining_ _…_ “Not a spell.”

“This is a curse,” Snape said with utter certainty. “You must remember which one.”

Hermione shook her head. “I can’t remember. I mean, I really can’t remember her saying anything, any spell.”

“On some level, you do. Even if she cast it voicelessly, it would be recognisable, to one who knows what to look for.”

“But I _didn_ _’t_ ,” Hermione pointed out. “I knew — I _know_ — only a few curses. Harry might know now, and he might even have known then, but he was downstairs.”

Snape paused. If he’d been someone else, Hermione might have thought he hesitated, but when he spoke his voice was implacable. “Then you must let me see.”

Hermione swallowed hard. A voice inside her was screaming _No, no, no, keep him out, don_ _’t let him see it, don’t let him know —_ a wave of nausea made her skin prickle and her mouth flood with sour saliva at the idea of Severus Snape, there, Severus Snape, seeing her beg and cry and —

A small, clear part of her baulked. _I did nothing wrong. I have_ nothing _to be ashamed of._

And with that, the realisation: _This is not my shame._

_It comes from outside me. It_ _’s being_ _done_ to _me._

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

Snape drew out his wand. Hermione had seen him produce it so quickly it simply appeared in his hand between one breath and the next, but now he moved with slow deliberation, as if she might bolt at a sudden movement. Just as slowly, he raised it, pointing at her.

_No, no, no_ —

“Go ahead,” she said thickly.

“ _Legilimens!_ ”

Faster than blinking, she was gone from the room, whirling through memories that swirled around her like autumn leaves in a gale. There was someone there with her, and instinctively she turned and fled from them. Memories crowded around her and she seized them and flung them behind her to delay her pursuer —  _Her mother, cooking dinner — the British Library, on the secret floor that no Muggle sees — Crookshanks, gazing from the window of her tower room —_

“Granger.” Snape stalked behind her, down the long corridor of all her past.

Hermione ran faster. _A week in Berlin, a treat to herself for graduating — last Christmas, sneaking off to the Burrow on Boxing Day and wondering if she should hate herself for feeling that she was coming home — a kite — a cat — a car —_

Snape batted them away, not even slowing, closer and closer behind her now. “As entertaining as your exercise of Occlumency is, Granger, my time is not unlimited.”

_On a plane, wondering what she_ _’ll do if they question her wand at Australian Customs, wondering how great a breach of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy it would be to discretely give her economy-class seat another inch of leg room —_

That was a mistake, and Hermione realised it at the same instant as Snape grasped it instead of casting it aside. _The plane landing, Hermione surreptitiously gripping her wand in case of a crash. She looks up and sees the incongruous figure of Professor Severus Snape, standing in the aisle._

_“This way, I think,” he says, and the plane whirls away and they are both on a city street. It is hotter than Hermione has ever been in her life, a heavy humid heat that has sweat rolling down her sides and back in seconds. The long-sleeved summer top she’d thought would be appropriate is smothering her. For just an instant, she starts to roll up the sleeves —_

_Sitting in the spare room of the people who, once again, know they are her parents, casting glamour after glamour on her arm, watching the word_ mudblood _emerge clear as ever after a second or two each time. Hermione looks up to see Snape standing in the doorway._

_“I should have realised something was wrong, then.”_

_He shakes his head, just slightly._ _“I suspect the curse was designed to prevent you.” The corners of his mouth turn down and his thin face settles into lines of profound disapproval. “That is, of course, no excuse for those who call themselves both Aurors and your friends.” He holds out his hand. “Come.”_

_Hermione takes a deep breath, takes a firm grim on her ebbing courage, and puts her hand in his._

_Long, clever fingers close around hers, and dark eyes meet hers._ _“It will be difficult, but I will be with you.”_

_Hermione nods, and —_

_“Filthy little mudblood!”_

_“No, please, no!” Hermione screams, and then just screams, the echoing pain of the Cruciatus curse blurring with the sharp agony in her arm and the horror of Bellatrix Lestrange’s mad face pushed close to hers, a single unendurable nightmare. She screams and screams, struggles with everything she has, but she is too weak, too weak, she is —_

_“Granger, concentrate,” Severus Snape says, exactly as if she were wool-gathering in the classroom — as if she ever had. She turns her head away from Bellatrix’s mad grin and sees him standing at the far end of the room, arms folded. “This is a memory. Concentrate. Separate yourself from the experience.”_

_“I can’t, I can’t!” It hurts too much, Bellatrix’s silver knife feels like it’s scoring the foul word directly onto her bones —_

_“This is_ your _memory._ _” Snape crosses the room in four long strides and kneels on the filthy, bloodstained carpet by Hermione. “This is_ your _mind. There is_ nothing _you cannot do, here. You must let me see what she did, or this is for nothing._ _”_

_Bellatrix is sitting back now, licking Hermione_ _’s blood from the blade of her knife. Whatever she did, it’s over, it’s too late._

_Hermione grits her teeth and goes back to the beginning._

_“Crucio!”_

_She writhes in blind agony and when it releases her Bellatrix Lestrange is straddling her, face an inch from Hermione_ _’s own. Hermione turns her face away in terror and disgust —_

_Turns her attention back._

_“Filthy little mudblood!” Bellatrix croons, knife in her hand. Hermione sees for the first time that her wand is in the other. She cackles, leaning across Hermione, pinning Hermione’s arm with her knee. The knife comes up, comes down —_

_A flare of magic, sickly yellow, at the tip of Bellatrix_ _’s wand._

“That’s enough,” Snape said, and Hermione was sitting in her own office, Snape kneeling in front of her. His dark eyes glittered strangely, and there was a sheen of perspiration on his forehead.

Hermione herself was drenched with sweat, her T-shirt sticking to her as if she’d gone swimming in it.  She felt as if she’d been turned inside out, twisted into an impossible pretzel, and then dropped from a great height. She wanted to ask Snape if he was alright, if he’d taxed his limited strength too much, but she was too tired to do more than lie limply in the chair and stare at him dumbly.

Snape put his hand by hers on the arm of the chair, and levered himself to his feet. “Rest,” he said, his voice rougher than usual. Moving slowly and stiffly, like a man much older, he went to the tall cabinet where Potions Professors past, present, _and no doubt future_ , kept finished brews. Hermione could hear the faint clink of glass-against-glass as he searched for something, as if his customary dexterity had temporarily deserted him.

After a moment he came back, moving more easily, a small vial in his hand. “This will help,” he said, and held it to Hermione’s lips.

The potion was sour and peppery, but not as disgusting as the one he’d made her drink earlier, and Hermione was far to tired to protest, let alone resist. She swallowed the few drops obediently. They burned down her throat but after a moment the heat subsided to a comforting warmth that spread slowly throughout her body, bringing returned energy with it.

“What is that?” she asked.

Snape glanced at the vial in his hand. “This, I never named. I based it on the Draught of Peace, with some innovations.” His dark gaze flicked back to hers, and then away. “I found some decades ago that I had a need for a remedy to the after-effects of strenuous Legilimency.”

“You could call it Antidote to Voldemort,” Hermione suggested, and for just an instant, she was sure she saw Snape smile.

Then the expression was gone as if it had never been. “Or I could call it Antidote to Insufferably Stubborn Gryffindors Who Don’t Know What’s Good For Them.” He set the vial carefully on her desk. “The silver knife, the one she always carried with her. Her very favourite weapon. What became of it?”

“I’m … I’m not sure. Why?”

“It will be far easier to draw the malice from your scar if I have access to it.”

“Hold on,” Hermione said. Looking up at him was giving her a crook in her neck, not to mention that he was looming rather intimidatingly, so she stood up as well, relieved her legs held her. “You ’re saying that you’re sure now that there’s curse on my scar, all this time, but don’t worry about it, you can break it?”

Snape’s lip curled. “Of course I can break it,” he sneered. “With the knife, it would be a simple matter to coax the residue of ill-will the blade left in your flesh to rejoin its … parent, one might say. Without the knife …” He shrugged slightly. “Still possible, but more difficult.”

“Harry might know where it is, the knife,” Hermione said. “I know it came with us to Shell Cottage, because …” _Here Lies Dobby, a Free Elf._ “It came through with us.”

“Then I suggest you ask Potter to locate it. In the meantime …” He frowned. “If you were being honest when you said that the pain, and the other effects, have grown less over time —”

“I was,” Hermione said.

Snape inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. “Then there is some reason the curse has become much more active in recent weeks. It may simply be that it is designed to resist discovery. Your reaction to Potter’s inquiry suggests that may be the case. Otherwise …”

Perhaps it was just that Severus Snape was capable of making _Hello_ sound like a thinly-veiled death threat, but his _otherwise_ sounded distinctly ominous.  Hermione shivered a little, and picked up her jumper. “Otherwise?”

“Otherwise, you should consider the possibility that there is something in your current environment or your current activities that is exacerbating your vulnerability to the effects of the curse.”

Hermione looked at him, leaning against her desk, _the only person in the world who can lean without looking in the least bit casual_. His arms were folded, providing a double concealment of the withered flesh his sleeve hid, and there was no expression she could read on his narrow face.

_Look_ _… at … me_ …

She cleared her throat. “I’ll consider it.”

“Do so.”

It was a dismissal, for all that this was now _her_ office, and Hermione turned to go. Her hand was on the bolt on the door when Snape spoke again.

“Tell Potter I agree to his plan,” he said.


	41. Chapter 41: Harry Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry faces a peril greater than he's ever known … paperwork.

“Try again, Neville,” Harry said.

They were well past the point where Ron or Hermione would have told him to accept they weren’t getting anywhere and to bugger off, but Neville nodded, and began to walk up and down outside the Room of Requirement again.

“Make sure you’re thinking of him as Tom Riddle,” Harry couldn’t help saying again.

“I am,” Neville said, mild rebellion. “I need to find what Tom Riddle has hidden. I need to find what Tom Riddle has hidden. I need to find what Tom Riddle has hidden.”

No door appeared, just as no door had appeared the last fourteen times he’d tried.

“Is there a better way to ask?” Harry said. “You know the Room better than anyone, Neville, you’ve always had a brilliant knack for it.”

“I’ve tried everything!” Neville looked miserable. “I’m sorry, Harry. If it’s in there, it’s not hidden, and it’s not left there, and it’s not placed there, by old Tom or by Voldemort either. I even tried all the variations I could think of for cursed objects, in case the Room doesn’t think it belongs to him now he’s dead, and —” He gestured to the blank wall.

Harry sighed. “Yeah. Thanks, Neville. I thought it had to be worth a try, since we know this is definitely one of the places he went, when he came asking Dumbledore for a job.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help.”

“You did.” Harry clapped Neville on the shoulder. “If _you_ can’t find it in the Room of Requirement, it’s not here. That’s helpful.”

Neville still had a hang-dog expression as they turned towards the stairs. “If I think of anything else likely, I’ll tell you, Harry.”

“Tell me even if it’s _unlikely_ ,” Harry said.

“It’s that bad?”

Harry paused to let a gaggle of Gryffindors bolt past on their way to breakfast. “I got the feel for how old Tom thought, that last year hunting Horcruxes. The kind of things he thought were important, you know?” They followed the students down the stairs to the ground floor. “Just imagine you have delusions of grandeur and an obsession with your own self-importance and go from there.”

“Some lost Defence Against the Dark Arts trophy, or something?” Neville suggested.

Harry shook his head. “I think it has to be something teachers come into contact with, or at least come near. So it can’t be _lost_ , and I don’t know how you could guarantee the D.A.D.A teacher would run across a trophy kept somewhere else in the school.”

“Sure you could,” Neville said. “Everyone walks rounds, right?”

“Not me,” Harry said. “Or Ron. Minerva said since we were already spending the nights on split-watch, we’d be let off.”

“Usually, though, everyone does — including the D.A.D.A teacher. There’s loads of places you could put something that every teacher would have to pass, sooner or later. Near any of the dormitories, for one.”

“Neville, that’s brilliant,” Harry said. “When are you next supposed to be patrolling?”

They reached the Great Hall and Neville shooed a couple of loitering students inside with a gesture. “Day after tomorrow.”

“Mind if I come with you?”

“Mind?” Neville grinned. “It’s bloody boring, Harry, I’d be dead chuffed to have company.”

“It’s a date, then,” Harry said as they reached the teacher’s table.

“Something you’ve been meaning to tell me?” Ginny asked, buttering her toast.

Harry took the seat next to her and stole a piece of her toast. “I’m sorry, darling, but Neville and I and the mandrakes are getting married. It’s not you — it’s me.”

“It’s definitely you,” Ginny agreed. “Or the mandrakes. I never did trust them, sexy little things.”

Harry inhaled toast, coughed, and sprayed crumbs across the table. Ginny pushed her glass of pumpkin juice towards him and he drank gratefully. “I don’t know why I even try,” he said when he could speak.

“I don’t know either,” Ginny said cheerfully. “The triumph of hope over experience? What are you up to with Neville?”

“Walking teacher’s patrol.” Harry surveyed the table and settled on kippers. “He had the bloody brilliant idea that Tom Riddle hid something in one of the places where any teacher on night duty would have to pass it.”

“West side upper corridor,” Ginny suggested. “It’s where everyone goes to snog. Which we _still_ haven’t done, not that I feel disappointed and let down or anything.”

“I’ve had a bit on!” Harry protested.

“Dark curses, decade-old jinxes, seven years’ worth of students to teach — excuses, excuses.”

Harry spotted Hermione hurrying into the Great Hall at a rapid, if still marginally dignified, clip. “Maybe _you_ should be the one looking into mandrakes.”

“Maybe you should break the D.A.D.A jinx before I _have_ to.”

“He’s changed his mind,” Hermione said, reaching them.

“ _He_?” Harry said, and she nodded. “Why, do you know? When did he tell you?”

“When I was marking.” She sat down on his other side. “I don’t know why. We weren’t even talking about it, he just blurted it out when I was leaving.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “ _Blurted?_ We are talking about the same person here, aren’t we?”

Hermione served herself scrambled eggs. “Said, then. Out of the blue.”

“Good,” Harry said, with an immense feeling of relief that told him just how much he’d been dreading breaching Severus Snape’s privacy. “We just need to find Patience, then.”

“If she’s a witch, there might be alumni records in the Library,” Hermione said. “I won’t have time to look until lunch, though.”

“I’ll look,” Harry said. “Ron’s got the fifth years doing Stupefy, and then the third years doing dangerous creatures, this morning.”

Hermione poured herself tea, and held the teapot in the direction of Harry’s cup with a raised eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you be spending the time on the D.A.D.A jinx?”

“That’s what I said,” Ginny put in.

Harry nodded, and watch Hermione pour tea into his cup as well. “I’m going to check the teachers’ patrol routes with Neville day after tomorrow,” Harry said. “Apart from that I’m out of ideas. I’m hoping inspiration will strike at some point, but apart from going over everything we’ve already checked and getting the same result, I’m not sure what to do.”

Hermione bit her lip, a small upright line between her eyebrows. “Neville couldn’t get anything from the Room of Requirement?”

“Not a thing.” Harry shrugged. “Which means at least we’ve ruled it out.”

“I’ll make a list,” Hermione said. “Of all the places that the D.A.D.A teacher would be bound to go, because they’re a teacher, not because of Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

“You can rule out the main gates, the Hogsmeade gate, and various doors,” Harry said. “And the staff room. Ron and I evicted everyone and spent five hours going over it one evening.”

“The Floo network, somehow?” Hermione suggested. “I mean, it’s a pretty sure bet that every teacher Floos in or out or to someone else’s office, sooner or later.”

“I think the Ministry would have noticed,” Harry said, “but I’ll ask the Department of Magical Transportation.”

 “If you’re talking to the Ministry, there’s something else.” Hermione rubbed her forearm. “That knife. The one … you know the one.”

Harry remembered the way she’d almost flinched from him when he’d tried to see her scar, the way she’d flinched and Severus Snape’s words after Hermione had fled back to the dungeon corridor. 

_“Leave it, Potter.” Snape’s voice is absent its usual mockery, but there’s a note of warning in it that Harry knows he’d be a fool not to heed. “You’ll do more harm than good._ ”

_Harry glances toward the corridor._ _“It’s a curse of some sort, isn’t it? Laid on her not to tell?”_

_“Something like that.” Snape pauses. “How could you not notice? It’s been_ five years _._ _”_

_“I have to do something.”_

_“For once in your life, Potter, leave something to those more suited and more qualified.”_

Harry put his hand over Hermione’s, and she stopped rubbing her arm. “Bellatrix’s knife?” She nodded. _Well, perhaps Snape was right to tell me to leave it to him._  “As far as I know it’s still in the Ministry. There’s a list as long as both my arms and both Hagrid’s of Death eater artifacts that need to be checked before they can be sent to the heirs, and an even longer list of things that need the curse-breakers before they can be let out of the vault. Why?”

“S— _someone_ told me that my — my _scar_ , it’s actually a sort of curse.” Hermione looked away from him, at her plate, and Harry squeezed the cold fingers beneath his own. “And that it would be easier to break it if we had the knife.”

“Then I’ll get hold of the knife,” Harry said promptly. “I should have noticed, Hermione, I’m sorry.”

Hermione pulled away from him. “Why would you have noticed? Is it so obvious, then?”

“I was thinking about it last night, and I realised I haven’t seen you in short sleeves since the war,” Harry said. “That might not be obvious, but it’s something I should have noticed. A _friend_ should have noticed.”

Looking down at her plate, Hermione said on a single hard breath, “I didn’t want you to.”

“Hermione …”

“I think that’s part of it. I never thought about it. I didn’t want to.”

 “I’ll find that knife,” Harry promised her. “If I have to turn the Ministry upside down, single-handed, I’ll find that knife.”

It got a smile from Hermione, a real smile, like the Hermione he remembered from school. “Thanks, Harry. Honestly, it’s just been a sort of white noise — but now I _know_ …”

“It’s not getting worse, is it?”

She shook her head. “Actually, what with the salve and the potion from … _someone_ , it’s better than ever. But I _feel_ it, now.”

What with one thing and another, Harry Floo’d to the Ministry straight after breakfast.

He used the general employee’s Floo, sliding out of one of the huge fireplaces lining the entrance and joining the shuffling throng of peak hour commuters. He might be on leave, but he was Harry Potter and the wizard on the reception desk barely glanced at his badge.

Harry got in the lift, grinning to himself to remember how he’d demanded to be treated _just like everyone else_ when he’d first started as an Auror. He hadn’t been, of course: he’d just made everyone horrendously uncomfortable by insisting that his identification be checked and verified each time. Ron had settled into celebrity much more easily, perhaps because he’d never really had it before, but it had taken a frank talk from Ginny for Harry to accept that he wasn’t going to be, now or ever, an anonymous Auror. _If you were just like everybody else,_ she’d said, _we could go out for a drink without you being asked for an autograph. But we can_ _’t. So think of that as the price that buys not having to prove who you are every time you go in to work_.

He went first to the Department of Magical Transportation, where he put Percy Weasley in a minor flap by suggesting there might be a problem with the Floo connections in Hogwarts. Harry was grinning when he left the office. Percy had improved out-of-sight since the end of the Wizarding War, but  one thing that hadn’t changed was his absolute dedication to his job, and how seriously he took it.

In fact, an absolute blizzard of memos overtook Harry before he reached the lift. He had to bat them away to keep them out of his face as the lift jerked up, sideways, and then shot off towards the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

At least five of Percy’s memos followed him out into the warren of cubicles and shot off to find their recipients. At this time of day, the office was nearly empty: the Aurors on operations in the small hours of the morning would still be on watch, and the ones who’d worked late the previous evening were catching up on sleep. Harry felt a small pang when he noticed that his old cubicle now clearly had a new occupant — a fan of the Falmouth Falcons, from the pennant pinned to the cubicle wall, and an absent-minded one, judging from the number of notes on various files that started DON’T FORGET.

There was a squeak of wheels, and Andy Aggerton rolled into view at the end of the row of cubicle, desk chair balanced precariously on its three working wheels. “Harry!”

“Hello, Andy.” Harry made his way down to him. “They keeping you busy?”

“As a Niffler in a jewellery store.” Andy scratched his head, sending his greying hair into disarray. “It seems that five years is just about the right amount of time for people to forget what a bad idea messing around with Dark magic is.”

Harry leaned against Andy’s desk. “What’s the word? Anything big?” _Like Aurors using Death Curses?_

Andy shook his head. “Small stuff still, thank Merlin. But the volume has definitely ticked up. And Robards wants everything documented in triplicate, like always.” He thumbed through a thick pile of parchment on his desk. “I don’t half envy you, off breaking an old Voldy jinx.”

“And teaching twelve-year-olds about Grindylows,” Harry pointed out. “Not to mention sharing living quarters with my girlfriend’s brother, while she’s bunked in with one of my best friends.”

“That is cruel and unusual,” Andy agreed cheerfully. “So you’ve come to ask for your leave to be cut short?”

“No, actually, I’m looking for something — one of the artifacts from the war. A knife.” He shrugged. “I know it came in here, because I brought it myself, but I don’t know what happened to it after that.”

“And?” Andy raised his eyebrows.

“And I need to borrow it.”

 “Borrow,” Andy said slowly. “Because?”

“Well, not to bloody use it on someone. It’s got a curse of some kind on it, or it works in tandem with a curse, and I need it to find out which.” Not entirely true, but Harry didn’t feel it would be right to talk about Hermione, even to another Auror. _Not to mention getting into just who pointed it out to me, and that_ _’s a conversation I need to have with Kingsley first, if I have to have it at all._

“Who’d it belong to?”

“Bellatrix Lestrange,” Harry said, unable to keep the grimness out of his voice. _Dobby is happy to be with his friend_ _…_

“Let’s have a look at the catalogue, then.”

It had been a while since Harry had been in the file room. As soon as had been reasonably possible after he’d finished his training and become a fully-fledged Auror, he and Ron had come to the mutual agreement that paperwork was better kept to a minimum. Fortunately, there were plenty of Aurors willing to fill in forms in triplicate or hunt through file-cards if it meant they got to share credit for an arrest, or a confiscation.

Harry stopped in the doorway as Andy started down the long row of cabinets. “Merlin’s ancient arse.”

The room was at least four times larger than when he’d last seen it, and every wall was covered from floor to ceiling in tiny card drawers. Cabinets ran the length of the room as well, in rows, also with thousands, even hundreds of thousands, of drawers — each of which would hold hundreds of index cards.

He followed Andy deeper into the room. “We have _this many_ Dark artifacts?”

“Over there’s verified incidents.” Andy waved at the left wall. “And back near the door is suspect-not-verified. But all the rest, yeah. I mean, not that it’s all Fenrir Greyback’s favourite flea-comb or something. Some of it wouldn’t do more than raise a pimple on a Muggle, but it’s all got to be rounded up, filed, and stored until the curse-breakers are done with it.” He stopped at the rear wall. “It’ll be back here, if it’s a War artifact. Rosier … Macnair … Lestrange, here we are.” He reached up and pulled a long drawer out.

Harry drew his wand and cast a quick _Wingardium Leviosa_. The drawer floated free and down to waist height. Andy flipped through cards. “Lestrange, Rabastan, Rabastan, Rabastan …” He tried the middle of the drawer. “Lestrange, Rodolphus, Rodolphus, Rodolphus … They certainly do over-represent, don’t they?”

“What do you get the well-dressed Death Eater who has everything?”

“Yet another Dark artifact. Here she is. Lestrange, Bellatrix, wood box. Lestrange, Bellatrix, shoes. Lestrange, Bellatrix, necklace. Lestrange, Bellatrix, necklace. Necklace, necklace, necklace — was she a Mooncalf or something?” He flipped forward again. “Lestrange, Bellatrix, knife. Steel, nineteen inches — more of a sword really —”

Harry shook his head. “The one I’m after is silver, and much smaller.”

“Knife, knife, knife …” Andy muttered to himself as he went through the cards, before pulling one out that had promise. "Knife, Silver, three inches, tendered to Ministry by Harry Potter."

“That’s the one.”

“Item V.E.S Ninety seven —”

Harry swore. _Very Extremely Secure_. It would take Kingsley Shacklebolt’s personal intervention to get Bellatrix’s knife released.

“Bad luck,” Andy said, levitating the drawer back into place. “Still, you are mates with the Minister. Bat your great big green eyes at him, rub your scar, that ought to do it.”

Harry laughed, leading the way back out of the file room. “He’s known me since I was about fourteen. Any ‘Chosen One’ awe is pretty well-tempered by ‘irritating adolescent’ annoyance.” A thought occurred to him. _Hogwarts might have the addresses of some alumni, but the Aurors knew how to locate absolutely everybody_. “Hey, can I have a quick look at your Floo-book before I go?”

“Sure.” Andy yanked open a drawer of his desk and tossed the well-thumbed book to Harry.

“Thanks.” Harry turned quickly to ‘M’ and ran his finger down the page. _Monkshod, Patience_.

_Floo: Care of the Ministry for Magic, Level Two, Section S._

“Something wrong?” Andy asked, and Harry realised he was frowning.

“No.” He tossed the book back. “Just looking up the family of an old teacher of mine, but they’re not on the Floo.” 

_Or at least, not on the Floo to anyone not in the part of the Auror Department in charge of relocating and protecting people in danger._

He’d have more luck just Flooing to random locations than getting the Section S to reveal the address of one of their charges.

Trying to persuade himself that succeeding in setting Percy Weasley onto investigating the possibility Tom Riddle had somehow embedded a jinx in the Hogwarts Floo was enough to compensate for coming up blank on his two most important missions, Harry made his way back down to the entrance and then by Floo to Hogwarts.

Dusting himself off in the D.A.D.A teacher’s quarters, he could hear Ron out in the classroom talking about Hinkypunks. “They might not look like much, but they can give you a nasty burn if you get too close. Who can tell me how to deal with a Hinkypunk?”

By Harry’s watch, the lesson was due to end soon. Rather than interrupting it by going through the classroom, he spent the time tidying up the room — or at least, tidying up his own belongings and heaping Ron’s in a pile on his bed.

He’d just finished when Ron said from the doorway, “You know there are house elves for that, don’t you?”

“We talked about that,” Harry reminded him. “No house elves in here until we can be sure the jinx won’t activate in some way that hurts them.”

Ron sauntered across the room and pushed the heap from his bed to the floor. “Did you think it would take this long, when we started?”

Harry shook his head. “I really thought it would be on something people had just overlooked. The doorknob, or something.”

“Well, it is, isn’t it?” Ron pointed out. “Except we’re overlooking it as well. How did you go at the Ministry?”

“If there’s something wrong with the Hogwarts Floo system, Percy will find it. But no luck on Patience Monkshod — or Bellatrix Lestrange’s knife.” He gave Ron a brief account of Hermione’s problem, and his efforts that morning. “So I can’t think how to find her, unless there’s something of hers here in Hogwarts that we can use to start a locater spell.” He flopped onto his bed and let his head thump down on the pillow. “Which I suppose is _possible_ , if she sent a letter to Professor Burbage, and _if_ it’s somehow stuck in a drawer in the Muggle Studies office —”

“Harry, you berk,” Ron said. “Are you a Professor or what?”

Harry lifted his head and stared at him in puzzlement.

Ron rolled his eyes. “She’s a bloody _parent_ , isn’t she? Of a student at this school? Just use Hogwarts stationery and write her a note asking to come to tea. _Hogwarts stationery_.  That gets to the addressee no matter where they are?”

Harry sat up. “Ron, that’s brilliant.”

Ron grinned. “Always the tone of surprise.” 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dobby’s death is different in the movie and the book, I’ve gone with the movie.  
> Section S is my own invention, as is Very Extremely Secure  
> Thank you to everyone who’s read this far, and especially to those who have left feedback! If you haven’t, please consider it — it’s the only payment I get.


	42. Chapter 42: Michael Rowland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maisie has a plan.

“We’ve been caught once already!” Mike Rowland hissed, trying to hunch lower on his seat so no-one would notice there was a Ravenclaw eating dinner at the Hufflepuff table.

“ _I_ _’ve_ been caught,” Colin pointed out. “I didn’t see _either_ of you in detention.”

“We just need a different plan.” Maisie served herself another three drumsticks.

“Have you by any chance been blocking those Bludgers with your _head?_ ” Mike asked. “Professor Granger saw Colin even though her back was turned!”

“I’ve thought about that.” Maisie turned to look up at the teacher’s table, where Professor Granger and Professor Potter were in deep conversation. “She must have some sort of alarm charm on the storeroom. Which means —” She waved a drumstick for emphasis. “— that if we learn the counter-charm, we can get away with it.”

“I’m not doing the distraction again,” Mike warned. “I don’t mind writing the essay for whoever does, but I want to do well in Potions, and you know what it’s like when a teacher decides you’re stupid.”

“Colin and I can’t do it,” Maisie said. “Because …” She gave Colin a meaningful look.

“It just slipped out!” Colin said for about the fortieth time. “I didn’t mean to tell her anything, it just slipped out!”

“Besides, we need to get her right out of the classroom, to be on the safe side.” Maisie took a decisive bite of her drumstick.

Mike stared at her. “How?”

She shrugged, chewed, and swallowed. “Something. An emergency. Like a Boggart or something.”

“And do you have a tame Boggart?” Colin asked. “No? I didn’t think so. And besides, Professor Potter would be called to deal with it, not Professor Granger.”

“Not if it was right there, in the dungeons,” Mike said slowly.

“We’d still need a Boggart.”

“I bet there’s one somewhere nearby. Hogwarts is full of dark places, and it’s right next to the forest, after all.”

“I am _not_ going on some mad expedition to capture a Boggart,” Colin said firmly. “I don’t even know if it’s possible, and even if it is, we don’t know _any_ of the spells we’d need.”

“Alarm Charm counter-spell,” Maisie said, holding up one finger. Another joined it. “Anti-Boggart Spell. Something to put the Boggart in, that can just be a box, and some way to carry it, that’s Wingardium Leviosa and we know that. So that’s two spells we need to learn. Mike, you can get Professor Potter to show you a Boggart spell. He likes you, and you’re good at D.A.D.A. Colin, you can find anything in the Library. Find an anti-Alarm Charm spell and if you can’t learn it yourself, ask Professor Flitwick.”

Colin scowled. “And what are you going to do?”

 She grinned at him. “Get a box.”

His mind on Boggarts, Mike flinched as a shadow passed over him, and then blushed when he realised it was just an owl making a delivery. He turned to watch as it swooped towards the teacher’s table and dropped its letter in front of Professor Potter.

“I bet it’s from the Ministry,” Colin said, watching as well. “He’s, like, their top Auror already. I bet there’s something no-one else can deal with and they’ve asked him to come and help.”

“He looks too pleased for that,” Mike said, as Professor Potter grinned at what he read and showed it to Professor Granger.

“I’d be pleased, if people were begging me to come and save them from something,” Colin said, a wistful note in his voice.

“Shhh, he’s coming this way!” Mike turned his attention back to his plate, trying to be invisible, as Potter left the dais and strode down between the students’ tables towards the door, his letter in his hand.

“I told you it was urgent!” Colin hissed once he’d passed them.

“It wasn’t, though,” Maisie said, pausing half-way through her third drumstick. “I could see part of it. It said something about tea. I can’t think of a Ministry emergency involving tea, can you?”

“Tea with the Minister?” Mike suggested.

“I bet that’s it! I bet the Minister is asking for his advice.”

Maisie shrugged. “Or someone’s asking him to tea.”

“Then why did he rush out?” Colin grinned at her. “Can’t answer that, can you?”

She rolled her eyes. “Because he’s gone to the owlery to send a reply, just possibly?” She pointed at his plate. “Finish that, and get on up the Library and look up that counter-charm.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Colin muttered, but he picked up his fork and started eating again.

 


	43. Chapter 43: Severus Snape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape seeks answers

Severus Snape stood in the deepest patch of shade he could find, twenty discreet yards from the Hogwarts’ Hogsmeade Gate. Out of the thin October sunlight, the day was cold, but Snape did not deign to shiver. 

He glanced again at the distance the shadow had moved across the ground. _Late. As usual._ It might be unfair to Potter to resent the delay — Snape knew very well from his own experience that finding a discreet Apparition point in a strange location could be a time consuming process —  but an opportunity to find fault with the Boy Who Lived was not one to be passed up. _Late, as he so often was to class._

It was not apprehension that made the waiting minutes crawl so slowly, of course. He was not apprehensive about what lay ahead. Why would he be? Why would the prospect of seeing Charity Burbage’s bereaved sister and then plundering her mind for Potter’s purposes raise apprehension? Why would he dread the moment when she recognised him, knowing what he’d —

_No_. He was not apprehensive. He was irritated at Potter for keeping him waiting, and he was a little irritated with himself for agreeing to the expedition, that was all.

_And in truth, I had little choice._

Ultimately, and as much as it galled him, Snape had to admit that Potter was right. The sickly evil he could feel from the curse seething against the restrictions he renewed daily spoke of someone skilled at the Dark Arts, far more skilled than could be permitted in someone guarding Death Eaters. Having given everything, _up to and including my soul_ , to stop the Dark Lord and his followers, Snape could have resigned himself to the intrusion and indignity of a trial before the Wizengamot, even to imprisonment himself if they found him guilty. _Except_ …

Except that would leave the breaking of that _other_ curse, the one that Hermione Granger bore, to the dubious skills of Ministry experts. _And that I cannot permit_.

So, here he was, refusing to shiver, being kept waiting once more by Harry Potter.

It was another five long minutes before the Boy Who Lived Apparated in with an ostentatious crack. He stood looking around for a moment, and Snape sneered. _As if he expects me to be waiting in plain view._ He shifted his weight slightly, allowing the cloak to billow enough for his feet to be seen, and Potter’s gaze sharpened. The boy — _the man, I suppose_ — loped over towards him.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said quietly. “I had a first year with a thousand and one questions about Boggarts, on a Saturday of all things, and I was late starting. Ready?”

In answer, Snape freed one hand from the cloak’s confines and grasped Potter’s arm.

Apparition was as unpleasant as ever, made worse by the lack of control inherent in being taken Side-Along. Snape couldn’t help staggering slightly on landing, swallowing bile. He looked around. They stood in a nondescript alley, not one in a large city from the lack of graffiti and petrol fumes.

“Ottery St Catchpole,” Harry said, as if to himself. “They moved here after the war ended. It’s this way.”

He started off down the alley and Snape followed.

They had to walk for several minutes to reach the Monkshod residence, but Snape was relieved to realise that Potter had the good sense to have chosen a sparsely-populated route. He found it easy enough to avoid the few pedestrians they encountered. _Of course, the boy no doubt remembers the difficulty in being invisible from his own reckless teenage escapades._

Finally they stopped before a small townhouse, unobtrusively nestled among others of its kind. The only indication that a witch or wizard might live there was the exceptionally extravagant garden, a riot of flowers blooming well out of season, and the weather-vane on the roof.  A young woman sat on the garden wall, her head bent over a book. She seemed indefinably familiar for  a moment, and then she stood up and with a brief flourish of a wand and a muttered _Finite_ , became Hermione Granger.

“Hello, Harry,” she said. “Are we ready?”

“We are,” Snape said, too quietly to be heard by anyone else.

Invisible, he followed the two of them up the garden path and stood silently as Potter knocked on the door. After a moment it was opened by a woman who could only be Patience Monkshod — she had Charity’s wide-set, blue eyes, Charity’s jaw — she had her wand ready and Snape wondered how long it would be before Charity’s sister could open her own front door without fearing Charity’s fate.

“Thank you very much,” Potter said, and Snape realised he had lost several sentences of the conversation.

Patience stepped back, holding the door wider. Potter and Granger managed to engineer their entry into the house so that Snape, unseen, could go inside between them, Potter enthusiastically shaking Patience’s hand so she had to let go of the door and leave it to Granger to close.

“Come through,” Patience said, leading the way down the hall. “Would you like tea? I can’t say how pleased I am you’ve come. I thought about writing to you, right after — but I thought that you must be absolutely drowning in congratulatory owls —”

Potter interrupted the flow of chatter, so like Charity’s, in a voice so like Charity’s. “We should have come sooner, I’m sorry.”

They were in the sitting room now, a bright, sunny space with vases of varicoloured flowers on every possible surface. “This is beautiful,” Granger said with evident sincerity. “Herbology must have been your best subject.” 

Patience laughed. “It was. And my favourite. Those things do tend to go together, don’t they?” She glanced down at the wand in her hand, and self-consciously placed it carefully on the mantelpiece before moving a step away from it. “Sorry about that. You can’t be too careful, I suppose.”

“We’ve actually come with a piece of news,” Potter’s said. “You might want to sit down.”

Patience’s eyes widened and Snape cursed Potter for the ignorance of youth. _No parent can hear that sentence without terror_. “Matthew?”

 “He’s fine,” said Granger, mercifully quicker on the uptake than Potter. _As usual._ “It’s nothing to do with Matthew.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” Patience sat down suddenly on the floral-print couch. “Merlin’s breath, you gave me a start!”

Snape gauged the distance between her and her wand. _Sufficient_. There was little that Potter or Granger could do to cushion the shock of his appearance, and after all, it would be better to take Patience sufficiently by surprise to delay her justified attempt to hex him into oblivion.

He shrugged off the Invisibility Cloak in one smooth movement and stood revealed before Charity’s sister. “I apologise for the subterfuge. And for this. _Legilimens!_ ”

She had no Occlumency at all. Snape found himself immersed in her mind with almost no effort on his part. It was as brightly-coloured and haphazard as her obnoxiously cheerful sitting room and for an unguarded instant Snape wondered if Charity’s mind had been the same —

_Concentrate. Seek the name of the Auror._ That memory would be tinged with distinctive emotions — the intrigue of conspiracy, the desire for vengeance, perhaps the fear of discovery. He sensed none of those, which was unexpected. _The shock of seeing me should have made her think immediately of how much she wants me dead_. Instead, the surface of her mind was occupied with a swirl of thoughts suffused with nostalgia, memories coloured by bitter-sweet happiness, and similar sentimental emotions.

He moved deeper, trying to pry as little as he could.  _There_. Fear, vivid and stark.

_He stands in a different room, yet one that has much in common with the one he_ _’d left — flowers everywhere, a child’s paintings pinned to the walls — Patience Monkshod sits on the same floral-patterned couch, her head in her hands. Molly Weasley is beside her, her arms around the other woman._

_“Will they come for me?” Patience whispers. “For Matthew?”_

_“I’m going to take you somewhere safe,” Molly says firmly. “Both of you. No-one will hurt your boy, Patience. You have my word.”_

No, not what he sought. He followed the thread of fear to another memory, this one _Platform 9 3/4, the Hogwarts Express pulling away, Patience standing with her hands pressed to her mouth, eyes full of unshed tears._

_“He’ll be fine,” a woman Snape didn’t recognise says to her. “I know it’s awful to say goodbye for the first time, but I promise you, he’ll be fine.”_

Not that, either, and not the next one about the time her boy fell off his Muggle bike and knocked himself silly, and not the one after that when he’d run a fever of mammoth proportions … not any of them, Snape was forced to conclude. What frightened Patience Monkshod was the thought of something happening to Michael, not conspiring to murder.

_Which is unexpectedly cold-blooded of her._ Considering the problem, he slipped back to the surface of her mind again. _There_. The most recent, the most vivid — _he watches himself fling off the Invisibility Cloak and Patience_ _’s gasp of shock, waiting for the thread of hatred he can follow to other memories of how she felt about him._

It did not come. In the instant before memory-Snape raised his wand, there was instead only utter shock, disbelief, and then the beginning of a wave of relief. _Not possible_. He sought other memories of himself, more ruthlessly now, searching them for the disgust Patience must surely feel for the man who had watched her sister die and done nothing.

_He follows two women along the path that led from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts. From behind, it_ _’s hard to tell them apart — hair the same indeterminate shade between fair and brown, firm and determined strides. Far ahead, Snape sees himself, stalking along, black cape swirling._

_“Come on,” Charity says. “If we hurry, we can catch up with Severus.”_

_Patience laughs._ _“As if_ that’s _something to hope for._ _”_

_“He’s an acquired taste, I’ll give you that.” Charity lengthens her stride, forcing her sister hurry as well. “Bloody hilarious when he wants to be, though.”_

Snape pulled away. _Useless._ A kaleidescope of moments at Hogwarts, Patience visiting her sister on weekends, himself in the background, in the distance, a minor figure in Patience’s memories … one or two conversations that he himself barely remembered except that he’d sought to restrain his sharp tongue for Charity’s sake … _there. Something more recent_.

_Charity in the same room as the first memory, trimming the stalks of a bunch of flowers with unnecessary violence._ _“Shut up, Patience.”_

_“I just meant, you’re not the only one. If he took in Albus Dumbledore, you can’t possibly blame yourself for —”_

_Charity whirls, scissors held up like a weapon._ _“I said shut up! I don’t believe it, I_ won’t _believe it. Not of Severus. There_ _’s something we don’t understand, that’s all. Maybe Albus was in league with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Maybe that’s why Severus … did what he did.”_

_“Murdered him,” Patience says flatly. “Why Severus_ murdered _him._ _”_

_“He must have had a reason!” Charity insists. “I_ know _him, Pat. He_ _’s my friend!”_

Snape recoiled, and found himself _in a dingy bedsit. A boy plays on the floor, pushing a wooden car repeatedly into the radiator and laughing at the irritating clang each time. The sound puts Snape_ _’s teeth on edge, but Patience Monkshod doesn’t seem to even hear it. She sits utterly motionless, staring at the front page of a newspaper._

_Moving closer, Snape sees it is_ The Quibbler _. He winces at the headline._ Severus Snape, Secret Spy and Saviour! _it screams in the largest possible font._

_“Oh, Chas,” Patience whispers. “Oh, Chas, I’m so sorry. I should have listened. I wish —”_

_She begins to cry, a few tears quickly giving way to gulping sobs._

_“Ma?” the boy — Matthew — says, abandoning his car and coming to stand next to her. “Ma? Has someone died again?”_

_Patience shakes her head and puts her arm around him._ _“No, my love. I’m just sad, because —” She holds the paper so he can see it. “You see this man? He was your auntie Charity’s very good friend. She liked him very much. This story is about what a hero he was, and thinking about it made me sad.”_

_Matthew studies the picture on the front page with interest._ _“Can we go and see him? I’d like to hear what he says about Aunt Chas.”_

_“No, I’m sorry, we can’t.” She draws him close and kisses the top of his head. “He died, as well. Like Chas did. Fighting Voldemort.”_

And he was standing in Patience Monkshod’s sitting room, wand still raised.

He lowered it. “Madam Monkshod …”

“You could just ask, Severus,” she said. “I’d be happy to let you see my memories of Charity in a Pensieve.”

He gave a stiff nod, and said to Potter, “She is not the one.”

“The one what?” Patience asked.

“Well, you see,” Granger began, and then paused.

_Oh, Merlin_ _’s beard._ “We were under the impression that you had learnt of my survival, and sought revenge on me for Charity’s death,” Snape said bluntly.

Potter muttered something about _tact._ “There were some coincidental factors that made it seem possible,” he said.

Patience opened her mouth, and then closed it again. “Tea,” she said at last. “I think tea is called for.” She stood, and started out of the room.

“I’ll help you make it,” Granger offered.

Snape reached out and took her wrist before she could follow Patience. “Do _not_ ,” he hissed as menacingly as he could, “Obliviate her.”

“But —”

“ _No_ , Granger.”

She gave a small nod of acquiescence and Snape released her to follow Patience into the kitchen.

Potter was regarding him with a small frown. “Never mind the inconvenience of a trial that ends in a acquittal,” he said. “If she makes a complaint to the Ministry about your Legilimency …”

“Then I will spend the rest of my days in Azkaban, yes,” Snape sneered. “Fortunately, they will not be very many. It would be one thing if she were part of a conspiracy to undermine the security of Azkaban, but she is innocent. Do you really want to add to my crime by allowing Professor Granger to commit another?”

“I suppose not,” Potter said. “What did you see?”

“Nothing relevant, and therefore nothing that is any of your business.”

“I’m afraid I have to insist on being the one to decide what’s relevant,” Potter said steadily.

“She was astonished to see me alive. She regrets ever believing I was a traitor. Her sister —” He turned his back on Potter’s damnably inquisitive gaze. “Her sister never did. Does that satisfy you, _Auror_ Potter?” 

“I’m —”

“If you tell me you’re sorry for the intrusion, Potter, I _will_ hex you,” Snape snarled.

“Don’t do that, Severus,” Patience said as she carried in the tea-tray. “I’ve just had the carpets done.”

Which was _exactly_ what Charity would have said, even down to the intonation — Snape swung away from them all and stared out the window, feeling the curse seethe within its containment, sending an ache deep into the bone. Behind him, china chimed, tea poured, voices murmured in explanation.

Eventually the sounds came clear enough for Snape to hear Potter telling Patience that Matthew was a diligent student, if a talkative one.

He turned, and moved to the chair they’d left empty for him. “He has steady hands,” he told Patience, “and has yet to cause any _serious_ explosions.”

“How long —” Patience started, and then gave a small laugh. “I was about to say, ‘how long have you been alive’. Which is not really a very sensible question, is it?”

“It seemed wise to avoid attention.”

Granger added three lumps to a cup of tea, stirred it, and handed it him on its saucer. “That’s why —”

Snape took the cup, grateful his hands didn’t shake. “Why I haven’t been to see you, earlier, to express my condolences.”

Patience tilted her head to the side a little. “I doubt that’s entirely it, since you were apparently convinced I wanted to kill you.”

“I was there,” Snape told his tea-cup. “When —”

“Harry, let’s go and have a chat to Molly,” Granger said, putting down her teacup and standing. “Professor, you can Apparate to the Hogwarts Gates from here?”

“I believe I can manage a task most seventeen-year-olds have mastered,” Snape said acidly, but Granger only smiled.

“Thank you for the tea, Patience,” she said, and hustled Potter from the room.

A moment later the front door opened and closed.

“So,” Patience said. “When did you start taking sugar in your tea?”

And _now_ his hands decided to shake. “Recently,” Snape said, putting the teacup down on the table before its rattling on the saucer became too obvious.

“Are you ill?” Patience paused, and then, before he could answer, “I mean, is someone poisoning you? Someone you thought was me?”

Snape shook his head slightly. “I assure you, I retain sufficient of my skills to avoid such obvious methods of assassination.”

“But they found you, didn’t they?” Her eyes were very wide, her face pale. “Does that mean they’ll find me? Matthew?”

“No. There is no-one at large with any motivation to hurt you, or Matthew. That possibility has been _categorically_ ruled out.” He leaned back in his chair, elbows on the arms, and rested his fingertips together. “Someone has learnt that I live, but the inescapable conclusion is that it’s someone unpersuaded by Potter’s account.” He gave her a small, thin smile. “I did kill Dumbledore, after all. That sort of thing tends to make a lasting impression.”

“What are you going to do?”

 Snape studied his hands, to avoid looking past them at Charity’s eyes in someone else’s face. “It appears,” he said at last, “that I am going to stand trial.” 

 

 


	44. Chapter 44: Harry Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry makes an unwelcome discovery

Harry and Hermione spent a very pleasant hour with Molly and Arthur Weasley, catching up on the family news, answering a dozen new questions about Muggle habits, and eating scones and cakes and biscuits until they were in danger of bursting at the seams. It was lovely, as it had always been to be in the Burrow, and it was odd, as it had been to be in the Burrow since the end of the Wizarding War: to be safely wrapped in the Weasley’s slightly manic domesticity at the same time as knowing just how fragile that sanctuary really was. Harry found himself looking at Molly and Arthur with an odd sense of seeing them through two different sets of eyes. One moment, they were Ron and Ginny’s ever-protective parents, the adults who could swoop to the rescue when needed; the next, they were a powerful witch and wizard whose strengths and skills very nearly approached his own.

His own students were the age Ginny had been when she’d been taken to the Chamber of Secrets; the age he had been when he’d fought the Basilisk; the age Ron had been when his rat had turned out to be a Death Eater and he’d come very close to being bitten by a werewolf.

_Merlin_ _’s beard, we were young_.

For the first time, he could appreciate just how difficult it must have been for Molly and Arthur — _for all the adults who cared about us_ — to maintain that air of reassurance. _All of them fought in the first war against Voldemort. They were my parents_ _’ friends; they were Alice and Frank Longbottom’s friends._

_They had seven children to worry and fear for, and they still took Hermione and me to their hearts as if we were their own._

Harry tried to imagine how he’d feel if one of his students — young people he’d known for only a few months, who had parents and families of their own to worry about them and protect them — had been lured into an ambush by Death Eaters the way he and his friends had been. His blood ran cold at the thought.

He might have greater magical talent than either Molly and Arthur Weasley, but in some ways, they were both stronger than Harry could even imagine.

When it came time for him and Hermione to leave, Harry hugged Arthur and then Molly fiercely.

“Harry, is something the matter?” Molly asked.

He pulled back a little to look her in the face, arms still around her. “No.” He smiled, to let her know he was telling the truth. “Just — thank you. For everything.”

“Oh, Harry.” She pulled him close again. “You know you never need to thank us.”

“Thanks anyway.”

He couldn’t find any better words. All he could do was hope they understood.

He and Hermione Apparated back to the Hogwarts gates, and started along the path to the castle, both lost in their own thoughts.

It was Hermione who broke the silence. “Do you think it was a mistake?”

“Did we?” Harry said, startled.

“We could have stayed,” Hermione said. “I mean, it felt rather like we were intruding, but we could have stayed.”

“For dinner?”

“Well, not, not for dinner, that would have been a bit much, but, you know, for a while.”

Harry frowned. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Leaving Professor — leaving _him_ with Patience.” She matched his frown. “Why, what are _you_ talking about?”

Harry shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. No, I don’t think it was a mistake. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“He could have been wrong about Patience. She could really be out to get him.”

“Good luck taking on _that_ particular wizard face-to-face.”

Hermione’s face was pinched with worry. “What if she does something like poison him?”

“Hermione.” Harry put his arm around her shoulders. “You’re an expert in Potions, if not to his standards. How many poisons are there that _you_ wouldn’t notice in a cup of tea or a biscuit?’

“Four,” she said promptly. “No, five.”

“Any of those the sort of thing someone would have hanging around the house on the off-chance a deadly enemy would come to call?”

“No,” she conceded.

“He’s well able to take care of himself. And besides, the whole reason for today was that he wasn’t likely to be wrong, wasn’t it?” Harry gave Hermione’s shoulders a squeeze. “Don’t worry so much.”

She bit her lip. “You’re going to tell Kingsley now, aren’t you?”

“Not this second,” Harry said.

Hermione twisted a little to look at him, her pace slowing and then stopping. “You’ve changed your mind?”

He shook his head. “The Ministry needs to know. But Professor S— _someone_ was right. Dumbledore didn’t go to the Ministry curse-breakers, did he, or to St Mungo’s. He could have asked Mad-eye for help, the greatest Auror of all time, someone he could have trusted to never breathe a word about it. He didn’t.” With another squeeze of her shoulders, Harry drew Hermione with him along the path. “And if I have to pick someone to break a curse on my best friend, I’m going to go with the man recommended by Albus Dumbledore.”

Hermione rubbed her forearm. “So you’ll wait until you’ve finished _using_ him before you turn him in?”

“You _are_ making him one of your causes,” Harry said. She frowned at him, and he smiled to take the sting from his words. “He agrees with me, you know. That finding out which Auror is flirting with Dark magic is important. Why else would he change his mind about coming today? I gave him twenty-four hours to give him the chance to disappear, and to be honest, I thought he would.”

“Can’t you tell Kingsley that he _has_ disappeared?” Hermione asked.

“I suppose I could,” Harry said. “I really don’t want to lie to him, though.”

“Maybe he just won’t come back,” Hermione said, biting her lip.

  _So long as she continues to take the potion, the matter is_ _… not urgent,_ Snape had said _._ “He’ll come back.” _He has to, doesn_ _’t he? To keep brewing that potion for Hermione, if nothing else._

It occurred to him that finding out who’d cursed him and protecting the integrity of Azkaban might not have been the entire reason Severus Snape had agreed to accompany them to Patience Monkshod’s house today.

“He’ll come back,” he said with certainty.

And in fact, when he got back to the rooms he shared with Ron and checked the Marauder’s Map, a slowly-moving set of footprints showed him that Snape was already in his own quarters.

Harry raked his fingers through his hair, watching the foot-steps pace from one side of the room to the other, then back, then back again. _Snape, standing with his back turned, thin shoulders braced as if for a beating, his voice like a dead man_ _’s. “Her sister never did.”_

Disturbing Snape this evening seemed like a very bad idea.

_I owe it to him to tell him he_ _’s safe from discovery — from further discovery — at least._ He could send a Patronus, but it didn’t seem likely that Snape would react well to the sight of James Potter’s stage Patronus, even at the best of times.

_And is it for his sake that I want to leave him alone, after today?_

_Or for mine?_

He could be grown-up enough to make his way down to the dungeons and knock, once again, on Snape’s door, but he couldn’t quite make himself to be grown-up enough to be happy about it.

The door opened, which meant he was, if not welcomed, at least tolerated.

Then Harry made his way down the short corridor and through the second door and found Snape glaring at him with a cold malevolence that forced him to revise his reasoning. “Thank you for letting me in, sir,” he said as calmly as he could, given that the other man looked as if he wanted nothing more in the world than to murder him. As much as he found it hard to believe Snape would actually harm him, Harry was glad that Snape had stopped his pacing behind his black leather armchair and its squat solidity was between them.

“If I hadn’t, you would have attracted attention,” Snape all but spat at him.

_I_ _’m not that much of an idiot_. Harry bit back the words unsaid. “I wanted to tell you that I’m not going to tell Kingsley about you, not yet.”

“And what do I have to thank for this small mercy? Is it too much to hope that you’ve finally learnt to consider the effects of your actions on those other than yourself and your friends?”

_So you_ _’ll wait until you’ve finished_ using _him before you turn him in?_ Hermione’s voice came back to him, and Harry winced.

Snape caught it. He gripped the back of the chair until his fingers turned white. “How glad I am that I am still of some use to the Chosen One. Does it occur to you that you have just given me a reason to delay assisting Hermione Granger for as long as I possibly can?”

“It didn’t occur to me, no.”

“No,” Snape sneered. “It wouldn’t, would it? Not to the boy noble enough to sacrifice his _life_ for his friends.”

Harry raised his eyebrows, his pulse ticking up with anger. “I didn’t exactly have much of a choice, you know. It’s not like I made a career decision somewhere along the line. ‘Shall I go into Magizoology or opt for Dying To Bring An End To Tom Riddle? Hmm, that’s a tough one … perhaps I should toss a coin’.”

“As if you would have chosen the glory of shovelling Graphorn dung.” There was so much acid dripping from Snape’s tone that Harry was half-surprised the words didn’t burn holes in the ornate rug on their way to him.

He couldn’t match it, but he did put as much sarcasm as he could manage in his voice. “As if _you_ would have chosen to run like Karkaroff.”

“His flight instigated his ultimate demise, Potter. Please do not embarrass yourself by attributing motives to me beyond self-preservation.”

“I _know_ that’s —” Harry stopped, and sighed. He was suddenly very tired. “Do we have to keep doing this? I mean, I get it. You don’t like me. Of all the Aurors in all the world, I’m the last one you want to have to deal with.”

“Congratulations on your perceptiveness,” Snape said, soft and venomous. “Would you like a round of applause? Perhaps an engraved trophy?”

Harry looked straight at him, refusing to be intimidated by the loathing and anger so clear in Snape’s set face and glittering eyes. “But we’re stuck with each other at the moment. So here’s the plan. I’m going to need Kingsley Shacklebolt’s approval to get Bellatrix Lestrange’s knife out of the Ministry vault. If you can think of a good reason I can give him, that’d be a help. In the meantime, if you’re certain Patience Monkshod isn’t involved —”

“If you’re going to doubt my conclusions, Potter, I wonder why you even compelled me to participate in today’s fruitless enterprise.”

“—then we need to find another way to identify the Auror involved, other than making a Ministry case of it,” Harry went on as if Snape hadn’t interrupted him, although it took just about all his self-control not to snap back at the miserable git.

Snape’s lip curled in a sneer. “Lost your faith in the infallible Ministry for Magic, now? My, it’s quite the season for you when it comes to losing your illusions, isn’t it, Potter? First your father, now your father substitute.”

Harry had always liked and respected Kingsley Shacklebolt, but the idea of him as a substitute father was so absurd that he felt his anger leak away, the blow Snape had intended as a knife to the ribs going so wide that all it did was puncture the illusion that Snape’s palpable rage had been about Harry in the first place.

“Yes, it was terrible to realise that he was only interested in my abilities, my experience, and my work ethic,” he said equably, and had the satisfaction of seeing Snape’s eyes widen in a surprise he couldn’t quite conceal. “My secret hopes of being his illegitimate love-child were quite dashed.”

For a moment they stared at each other, and then Harry saw the faintest twitch at the corner of Snape’s mouth. “Then you must have been denser even than your performance in Potions indicated.”

“Haven’t you realised yet that Hermione carried me through most of your classes?”

“You and Longbottom both?”

“At least Neville paid attention.”

“I shudder to think what his potions would have been like if he hadn’t, then,” Snape said dryly. Harry noted that his grip on the chair had eased, the tendons on the back of his hands no longer standing out like wires beneath his skin.

“What, two decades teaching hasn’t given you any worse examples?”

“None that you’re old enough to  hear,” Snape retorted. The twitch at the corner of his mouth had definitely become a half-smile, and Harry allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief.

He pulled out his wand and Transfigured one of the books lying by the hearth into an armchair matching Snape’s own.

“Flashy,” Snape said sourly.

“Surely only what you expect from me?” Harry countered. He sat down, and, after a moment, Snape took his own chair. “Professor. We need to work together on this, at least for now. Hermione told me that you need the knife that made her scar to help lift whatever curse Bellatrix used — I can get that knife, and you can’t. I need to identify which Auror at Azkaban is meddling with Dark magic, and without involving the Ministry, I can’t do it without your cooperation.” Harry paused. _I hope I_ _’m right about this._ “And we both want each of us to succeed.”

Snape crossed his legs in one economical movement and laced his fingers together. “I concede your logic.”

_Wonders will never cease_. “I think I can persuade Kingsley to let me have the knife for a bit, if I tell him what it’s for.”

“And do you think Granger will forgive you for that?”

“If I’m right, once the curse is broken, yes,” Harry said steadily. “If I’m wrong, the curse will still be broken.”

Snape inclined his head slightly. “And in return? What is your _quid quo pro_ , Potter?”

Harry frowned. “I don’t think I know that spell, sir.”

Both Snape’s eyebrows went up, as eloquent as if he’d rolled his eyes. “That’s because it isn’t a spell. It means ‘something for something’. An exchange, of equal value.”

“That sounds a bit like to me like it ought to be a spell,” Harry said. “Well, my _pro_ for your _quid_ is — Aurors are taught, part of our training, to recognise spells cast by the same person. It helps us track —” A flick of Snape’s fingers indicated the former Potions Professor didn’t need further explanation. “Ron, Neville and I, between us, we’ve trained with or worked with a lot of Aurors, and a fair few of the ones we trained with ended up as Azkaban guards. I’ve had a brief opportunity to examine your arm —”

Snape was there before him, and his voice was deadly. “Do you mean to tell me that my freedom depends on the perspicacity of Ronald Weasley and _Neville Longbottom_?”

“I would have thought you’d have a better opinion of Neville these days,” Harry said, “given he killed Nagini.”

“The ability to cut the head off a giant snake, whilst admirable, does not speak to qualities of intellect, reasoning, or insight.”

“I’m glad you find something to admire in Neville.”

Snape regarded him over his clasped hands. “Whatever Neville Longbottom’s qualities, capacity for logical thought is not foremost among them.”

“Then you’d better hope I can spot the caster myself, hadn’t you?” Harry said. “Can I see your arm, Professor?”

Despite their fragile truce, Snape’s expression darkened. His thin lips thinned further and the glare he gave Harry could have given a Basilisk a run for its money. “If you’re expecting me to be gullible enough to believe all that claptrap about Aurors being able to identify the caster of a spell through some mystical ability, I’m afraid you’re destined to be disappointed.”

“It is about eighty percent claptrap,” Harry agreed cheerfully. “A bit of mystique makes our jobs much easier.  And the twenty percent that’s true isn’t mystical ability, it’s a skill that took me some bloody hard work to learn. I can’t wave my wand, or go into a trance, and produce a name. What I _can_ do is study a spell, whether it’s a charm or a jinx or a curse, and see the little variations that everybody has.”

“Like handwriting.” Snape sounded as if he was interested despite himself.

Harry nodded. “Very much like. I bet you could do the same with potions, couldn’t you? Tell the difference between something brewed by, say, Hermione, and one by Professor Slughorn?”

“Naturally.” Snape drew the word out. After another motionless moment studying Harry, he began to unbutton the sleeve of his coat. “If this works, do I have your word that you’ll say nothing to Shacklebolt?”

“If it’s Azkaban that’s worrying you —”

“Do I have your word?” His cuff unbuttoned, Snape made no move to push up his sleeve.

“Alright, then. If Ron, or Neville, or I, can work out who’s doing this, I won’t tell Kingsley that you’re still alive.”

Snape inclined his head. “Adequate.”

He pushed up his sleeve and then the shirt-sleeve beneath it, and turned his wrist.

Harry gasped with shock. The oval of withered flesh had grown, extending now from Snape’s wrist almost to his elbow, and it seemed deeper somehow, as if the curse was eating its way through to the wizard’s bones.

“Buggering Boggarts,” he breathed. “I thought — that is, Hermione gave me the impression it was getting _less_ severe, but …”

“Yes,” Snape said, barely above a murmur. There was no emotion in his voice, nor, when Harry tore his eyes away from the horrifying decaying flesh, in his face. “It seems, Potter, that I will have less time than I expected to teach Granger the basics of her job.”

 


	45. Chapter 45: Severus Snape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape's solitude and privacy is once more invaded …

 

Even with his feet so close to the fire blazing in the hearth that only his dragon-hide boots kept his toes from scorching, Severus Snape was cold.

Objectively, he knew the room was warm. It was one of the advantages of the dungeons — being buried below the ground moderated the worst extremes of both scorching summers and frigid winters. And the fire was ferocious enough to heat even a draughty tower room in January, let alone this room in October.

_And yet_ _…_

He refused to shiver, and he most definitely refused to wrap the thick blanket Tilney didn’t think he’d noticed her deliver around his shoulders. Giving in to his body’s irrational inability to recognise that the room was a comfortable temperature would be yielding to the curse. _Not in any large way, true, but I_ _’ll be damned if I’ll give it even one inch it doesn’t have to fight to take._

His arm ached, as if the curse sensed his defiance and was enraged by it. A small smile touched his lips. _Good. You have a fight on your hands, whoever you are. I hope you know that._

The smile died. _Whoever you are_. That was the rub, wasn’t it? Potter had spent nearly an hour examining Snape’s arm with his wand, concentrating so hard it was a wonder smoke hadn’t begin to pour from his ears with the unaccustomed exercise he was giving his brain. At the end of it, he’d confessed himself as unenlightened as he’d been at the beginning.

That had been no surprise, and yet Snape had found himself disappointed. Disappointed, and then furious with himself when he realised that it was because he had, however briefly, allowed himself to hope: hope for freedom, hope for life, hope for a surcease of pain.

To hope for things he could not have, and did not, after all, deserve.

He hadn’t even been able to relieve his feelings by verbally flaying Potter to within an inch of his life, either, because of the boy’s — _the man_ _’s_ — damnable new-found maturity. _Nothing is more infuriating than having someone find your most vicious insults mildly amusing._

Which was probably why Potter did it, which meant that he had in some indefinable way gotten the better of their exchange before he went off to find his fellow ex-Aurors with a cheerful _Sleep well!_

The fire was dying down. Snape roused it to full blazing life again with a flick of his wand. He should go to bed, he knew. The chill he felt could as easily be the product of fatigue as of the curse. Merlin only knew what the time was — sometime after dinner, he supposed, from the untouched plate Tilney had brought at some point before she’d brought the blanket. 

He should go to bed. He should go to sleep.

_Sleep well!_

Snape shuddered, and made no move to leave his chair.

A glimpse of Charity as she’d been — stolen, plundered from her sister’s mind, but real — was infinitely preferable to the memory of her upside down, tears of pain and terror tracking over her temples to her hair, to the sound of her voice cracked and hoarse with agony and fear.

_Please, Severus_ _… we’re friends._

He had no illusions that tonight of all nights he might find only oblivion in sleep. No, what waited for him in his bed was another night of being put to the choice, over and over again. Of making that choice, over and over again.

Of turning the blank face of indifference to the woman who had kept her faith in him, even then, while on his forearm the Dark Mark burned and writhed as if it, if not its maker, could tell he was a traitor in his heart.

 _Please, Severus_ _… we’re friends._ Had they been? She’d defended him, even to her own flesh and blood, when all the world knew him as a murderer. _Would I have done the same, if our positions had been reversed?_

 _No, probably not_. Charity had believed the best of him, as she had of everyone, because she couldn’t entirely believe that her own inherent decency wasn’t somehow hidden within everyone. _Whereas I know that it is darkness, not decency, that lies hidden in us all._  

A sudden and very Gryffindor hammering on the door made him start slightly. _Potter?_ And there it was again, the flare of infernal, irrational hope, before his wards told him it was a different Gryffindor pounding on his door as if to wake the entirety of Slytherin House from sleep. _Granger._

He was tempted to leave her standing in the corridor, a little encouragement to her and the others to moderate their enthusiasm for calling on wizards unannounced and uninvited, but she showed no sign of reducing her assault on his door.

The moment it opened to her she came storming up the corridor as if to battle, robe billowing behind her like a battalion flag. “Is it true?” she demanded.

Snape turned a little, giving her the look that had always made even his N.E.W.T students quail. “You will have to be more specific, Professor Granger. Is it true the sun rises in the east? Most certainly.”

Her appearance made it clear that she was too emotional to give even the most basic consideration to maintaining the decorum appropriate to a member of staff: only one arm was through the sleeve of her teaching robe, the other side of it dragged hastily over her shoulder, and a significant portion of her hair had escaped its confinement and stood out around her head in reckless curls. Her next words made it clear she was also too emotional to grasp his admonition for her imprecise language. She put her hands on her hips, dislodging her robe. “Is it true, what Harry said?”

“Since I have no idea what Potter has told you …” Snape drawled, and saw the colour rise in her cheeks with a sense of satisfaction.

“He said your curse is worse,” she snapped. “Show me.”

Snape drew his left arm protectively to his chest, noticed he was doing it, and scowled. “I am not an exhibit, Granger.” Yes, that was it. _Is a wizard to have neither privacy nor dignity in his own quarters?_ His reluctance to show her the withered flesh was a very reasonable desire for a little choice in the matter, nothing else.

Choice he was apparently to be denied, because Granger stomped across the room in her thick-soled Muggle shoes, robe trailing and flapping behind her, and actually grabbed his left wrist. “Show me!”

He seized her wrist in turn. “Professor Granger. I am pleased to be able to say I have lost all familiarity with Muggle manners, but allow me to inform you that in _our_ world one does not manhandle a wizard.” He paused long enough to let that sink in, and then added silkily, “Without his … express … _invitation_.”

 For a moment he had no idea why he’d said that, and then as Granger blushed an unbecoming crimson and released him, before taking a step back, he realised that his instinct to select the most discomfiting remark possible hadn’t waned one iota in his years out of the classroom. The realisation made him smile, which made Granger take another step backwards —

Which made her catch her heel in her trailing robe and pitch backwards.

His _Mobilicorpus_ caught her and lifted her up before she could pitch into the fire and incinerate herself. _Which would have been a valuable lesson, but Poppy deserves her sleep._

“Thank you,” Granger squeaked from mid-air. “Um — could you put me down now?”

Snape pretended to be thinking it over, while Granger stared determinedly at the ceiling as if she was above noticing the humiliation of being suspended above the carpet. “Has your control over your _Finite Incantatem_ become unreliable?”

She shook her head, still not looking at him. “I’d rather not just _drop_ , that’s all.”

Tempting though it was to let her down with a jolt, Snape lowered her slowly until her feet touched the carpet before he released the spell. “Either take that robe off or put it on properly before you kill yourself.”

“I hate this thing,” she said, struggling to locate the armhole. “I feel like I’m playing dress-up.”

“That is the fault of your own attitude, not the robe,” Snape said severely.

Granger finally managed to get herself properly dressed, and settled the robe in place with a firm tug on its lapels. “I don’t know how you managed to never get your sleeves in any of our cauldrons. If it wasn’t for the protective charms you gave me, this would be all to tatters by now.”

“Practice,” Snape said. He gave her a thin smile. “I assure you, after a decade or so, it will come naturally.”

That, he realised, was a mistake, for her eyes narrowed at the mention of her future teaching career. “You’ve given up.”  

“Not in my nature,” he said coldly. “As you, by now, should know.”

“ _Is_ it worse? The curse? Like Harry said?”

He pressed his lips together, and nodded.

“Let me see — oh, don’t look at me like that! I thought the potion was working, if it isn’t, I have to see.”

“It _was_ working.” Reluctantly, Snape unbuttoned his coat-sleeve once again. “But apparently no longer.” He stared into the fire as he revealed the cursed flesh to her, but he couldn’t close his ears to her cry of dismay. 

The rustle of her robe was the only warning he got before she was kneeling by his chair, trying to take hold of his wrist again.

He flinched away. “Don’t touch it, you fool. Does the term ‘Dark magic’ mean nothing to you?”

She stared up him. “You let Harry examine it. For hours, he said.”

“Potter is an Auror. One presumes the Ministry insists on at least basic competency in precautions against contamination.”

“Oh.” Biting her lip, Granger looked closely at the grey blight on his skin, but she made no further move to touch him. “How long? Since it began to get worse?”

“A few days.” A few days since he had realised it was no longer reducing, and only hours since he had realised it was expanding with sickening speed.

She frowned. “Is it — you’ve used a lot of magic in the past few days. I know Legilimency can be demanding — today, and before, with — before. Is it, have you —”

“Merlin’s white whiskers, Granger, spit it out or shut up!”

“Is using your magic making it worse?” she blurted, rubbing her own forearm. “Because if it is …”

“Don’t worry,” he said acidly. “Breaking Bella’s little mischief wouldn’t kill me, even if your assumption was correct. Which it isn’t, so kindly spare me any expressions of guilt.”

Granger stared up at him. “But that means it _is_ my fault. It must be a rebound — from the potion — I was trying to help, but I’ve made it worse!”

The thought had occurred to Snape as well, and _interfering busybody_ and _insufferable know-it-all_ had been the mildest of what he’d called her in the privacy of his own head, _the only place I seem to be able to_ get _any privacy at the moment_.

He was preparing to treat her to an assessment of her character and competence that would have made any remarks he ever made to Neville Longbottom seem like effusive praise when two tears trickled down her cheeks, quickly followed by their fellows. 

 _Oh, for_ _…_ Even with his extensive repertoire of profanity, Snape couldn’t think of words strong enough to express his exasperation. “Granger, stop it.”

She cried harder, covering her face with her hands. It was only a minimal improvement, as her hitching breath and shaking shoulders were not in the least concealed. Normally, reducing a student to well-deserved tears was a pleasure to be prolonged as long as possible, but Granger’s noisy self-flagellation was disquieting.

 _Irritating_ , he corrected himself. _It_ _’s irritating._

“If the exacerbation _is_ caused by the potion — Professor Granger, kindly compose yourself. This over-emotionalism is counterproductive.”

Granger raised a blotchy, tear-streaked face. “If I’ve _k-killed_ you …” Her voice trailed away and she gave a gulping sob.

“Then I give you full permission to indulge yourself in an ostentatious display of your choice at my funeral. For now, do try to act like the Potions Professor you are.” He narrowed his eyes at her, and she nodded, gave one more gulping sob, and wiped her face on her sleeve. “And if you blow your nose on the sleeve of your robe, I will personally make sure Minerva dismisses you before the end of the week.” He Summoned a handkerchief and held it out to her. “Here.”

She took it and blew her nose with typical Gryffindor enthusiasm. Thankfully, she made no effort to give it back to him, but tucked it into her sleeve. “What do you need me to do?”

 _Leave me in peace and quiet until this reaches its inevitable conclusion,_  Snape thought. Aloud, he said, “A full analysis of the alchemical changes produced by your changes to the original recipe.” _That will take her at least a week, given the other demands on her time._

Granger nodded. “I can do that.”

“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I thought it beyond your capacity,” Snape said as repressively as he could.

She stood up. “I’ll get started now.”

“No, Professor Granger, you will get some sleep and start tomorrow with a clear head.” Even with Bellatrix Lestrange’s knife and the knowledge of the curse she’d used, the process of breaking it would be difficult. Snape had no desire to undertake it with Granger half-hysterical from lack of sleep. To make sure of it, he added, “That way there is less danger of you repeating your mistake.”

Her expression crestfallen, she nodded. “Will it — will you be alright?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Eager to reprise your role as an angel of mercy?”

“No! I just meant — until Harry can figure out who’s doing it, and make them stop. Do you still have … time?”

“I’m not about to drop dead at your feet, Granger, unless slain by your execrable reliance on euphemism.”

Instead of flinching, Granger smiled. _I really must be losing my touch._ “Good,” she said. “Because — and I’m not supposed to tell you this, in case he’s wrong and you get your hopes up for nothing — Harry’s almost positive he’s seen the same spell signature somewhere before. He and Ron and Neville are up in the Room of Requirement working through a list of possibilities. Good night.”

Snape sat where he was for a long time after she left, staring into the fire until it was little more than glowing coals, trying and failing and trying again to crush the spark of utterly unreasonable, completely undeserved, wholly irrational, _hope_.

 


	46. Chapter 46: Michael Rowland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maisie, Colin and Mike carry out a completely mad idea.

 

The problem with creeping around the castle at night, Mike Rowland was discovering, was that one’s entirely natural desire to avoid the creepy and probably dangerous deserted parts of Hogwarts, and stick to the brightly lit main corridors, was an excellent way to get caught.

He pressed his back to the wall and prayed that the statue of whoever-it-was — there had barely been time to slip behind the fat witch with nineteen warts, let along read the plaque — concealed him from view.

“I don’t understand it.” Professor Potter’s voice floated up the corridor. “I’d swear in the Wizengamot that I’ve seen spells cast by that witch or wizard before.”

“Could it be that the Death Eater they’re using is the one whose signature you’re seeing?” Professor Longbottom said, his voice getting louder at the end of the sentence. _They_ _’re coming this way. Blast, blast, blast._ “If that’s the case, then it’s probably someone you’ve investigated, right?”

Their footsteps were at the end of the corridor, now, and coming closer. Mike tried not to breathe. _Death Eaters? But I thought they were all caught!_

“Could be,” Professor Potter said thoughtfully. “Worth looking into, at least. We’d be able to tell who had access to him or her. Or at least, Ron could ask Jimmy to find out.” He paused, and when he spoke again his voice came from directly in front of the witch with the warts. “It’s better than the alternative, which is that the curse was cast by someone who got access as a visitor.”

“No chance,” Professor Longbottom said, also from directly in front of the statue, which meant that two professors, both trained as Aurors, were only a few feet away from Mike’s make-shift hiding place. “Visitors are observed. Anyway, how many people can there be who aren’t Aurors or Death Eaters whose magic you’d recognise?”

“Not many,” Professor Potter said. “None I’d think could do something like this.”

“There you are, then.” Professor Longbottom’s voice grew quieter and Mike felt a great wave of relief as he realised they were moving away. “It’s either someone you trained with, or someone you arrested. We’ll go through the list again tomorrow.”

Mike waited until the sounds of their footsteps faded completely away before slipping out from behind the statue. Feeling vaguely obliged to her, he paused long enough to read the plaque beneath the witch with all the warts. _Felicity Fennegreek, 1412 - 1545, inventor of the self-cleaning hat._

“Thanks, Madam Fennegreek,” Mike whispered, and scarpered.

He didn’t encounter anyone else on his way downstairs, and within fifteen minutes was waiting for Maisie and Colin in the shadow of the standing stones.

They turned up together, hauling a luggage trunk between them, Colin doubly burdened by the lantern in his other hand. They dropped it on the grass and stood panting.

“Why didn’t you just levitate it?” Mike asked.

Maisie rubbed the palm of her hand. “It’s going to be hard enough to levitate it all the way back, without being tired to add to it.”

“What if we can’t find one?” Colin asked.

“Then we’ll hide the trunk somewhere and come back another time,” Maisie said.

“I think I know how to make sure one comes,” Mike said. He glanced from Maisie to Colin and back again. “From what Professor Potter said. But if I tell you, it might not work.”

Colin frowned. “That sounds like Dark Magic.”

Maisie snorted. “No it doesn’t, Colin. Nobody ever got free of the Imperius curse because they knew what it was.”

It was Mike’s turn to frown. “What’s the Imperius curse?”

“Never mind,” Maisie said shortly. “So are we going, or what?”

It was Mike and Maisie who ended up carrying the luggage trunk the rest of the way to the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, while Colin carried the lantern to light their way.  It was far heavier than something that was essentially empty had a right to be and Mike was glad when Maisie decided they’d gone deep enough into the forest and he could set it down.

“Right.” He took out his wand. “You’d better put the lantern out.”

“Can you light it again?” Colin asked, his voice shaking a little.

“Matches,” Maisie said. She raised the lantern’s slide and blew the candle out. “They’re a Muggle thing.”

Despite it being his own suggestion to put the lantern out, Mike found himself deeply uneasy to know they were entirely dependent on a Muggle method to call back the light. The darkness in the Forbidden Forest was of an entirely different quality to the friendly nighttime black of the dormitories. _That_ darkness wrapped a warm cocoon around the inhabitants. Night in the Forbidden Forest pressed in, like cold fingers against his skin, like hands laid over his eyes and an unknown voice whispering threats in his ear.

He’d written down everything that Professor Potter had said about Boggarts, and he’d checked his conclusions against those of the D.A.D.A books that weren’t in the Restricted Section, and he was  almost sure he was right, but still … despite the fact that it was his own plan, Mike could feel his heart hammering faster and faster as he counted to three hundred. As hard as he tried to count slowly and steadily, he got through the last fifty in less time than the first hundred and fifty.

Glad he was invisible in the dark, he shifted his wand to his left hand long enough to scrub his sweaty palm dry on his robe.

 _“Some people say Boggarts just want to be left alone, that they transform as a defence mechanism._ ” _Professor Potter is clearly about to go somewhere — he_ _’s wearing an outdoor cloak, and there’s a dusting of Floo powder on his hand as if he’d been about to toss it into the fireplace when he heard Mike’s knock. Still, he leans patiently against his desk and waits for Mike’s next question._

_“But that isn’t enough to qualify a creature as Dark, is it? There are plenty of things that would prefer to be left alone.”_

_Potter nods, smiling._ _“Excellent point.” Mike has a sudden hot feeling in his chest and throat at the thought that Professor Potter is approving of his diligence when actually Mike is deceiving him instead. He swallows hard and forces himself to stay silent and listen.  “For one thing, Boggarts are amortal, they’re non-beings. Do you know what that means?”_

_“No.”_

_“They aren’t born, and they can be banished, but not killed. They’re part of a class of creatures that are actually created by our emotions, so new ones are always coming into being.”_

_“What emotions create a Boggart?”_

_“Fear,” Potter says. “And it’s my opinion that they take the form of what frightens of us because fear strengthens them.”_

Mike gripped his wand so hard it hurt his hand and thought that if fear could create a Boggart, there surely must be one lurking around nearby.

Slowly and carefully, he crept sideways until he was standing directly behind Colin and Maisie. _Really sorry about this, Colin_.

He reached out and grabbed Colin’s shoulder.

“AaAAaaAAaaghh!” Colin’s scream of pure terror split the velvet night.

With a startled cry, Maisie jumped sideways, wand up, and then started fumbling with the lantern. 

 Colin flung himself forward and then turned to face Mike.

“Look, I’m sorry, it’s just … ” Mike’s voice trailed off as Maisie got the candle lit and its flickering glow showed Colin pale as milk, staring past Mike with horror stark on his face.

Mike spun. Behind him loomed an enormous spider, squat and hairy, venom dripping from its giant fangs. _Oh no. Oh no_.

_I should have thought that there_ _’s more than one kind of creature in the Forbidden Forest that might be drawn to someone screaming._

He raised his wand. “ _Protego!_ ”

“That’s for _magic!_ ” Maisie said, and hurled the lantern directly at the monster.

It barely flinched, and then with a skittering of hideous multi-jointed legs, turned its attention to her. Mike saw with a queer blank dread that it was getting larger, somehow, rising up until the shrinking head was just below the tree branches — changing shape as it did so —

 _Oh you complete dunderhead! What kind of Defence Against the Dark Arts student_ are _you?_ He levelled his wand. “ _Riddikulus_!”

There was a cracking sound like a breaking branch and the spider was suddenly wearing tap-dancing shoes and a small red bowler hat.

“Maisie, get the trunk!” Mike shouted. The Boggart was turning back towards him now, shifting again. _I can_ _’t drive it away completely, that defeats the whole point._ It shrank, lost legs, resolved itself into a tall man all in black, a silver mask over his face. _Death Eater._ Mike’s mouth was suddenly so dry his tongue felt like sandpaper in his mouth and his knees shook until they nearly knocked together. “ _Riddikulus,_ ” he managed to croak. Another crack echoed around the clearing and the silver mask was suddenly a novelty clown mask.

“It’s open!” Maisie yelled. “Drive it this way!”

“Get on the other side and bait it!” Mike ordered. He circled around the Boggart. “Colin, get its attention!”

“I don’t _want_ its attention!”

“Colin, do as Mike says!” Maisie shouted. She jumped up and down, waving her arms. “Here! Stupid Boggart! Here! Come and get me!”

“Here!” Colin called as well, his voice thin and weak compared to Maisie’s robust bellow.

The Boggart turned and Mike got behind it. “ _Riddikulus! Riddikulus_!” _Crack_ , and _crack_ again, and the Boggart veered between Colin and Maisie, half spider and half formless smoke. “ _Riddikulus!_ ”

With a sudden sharp movement, the Boggart dived into the safety of the dark luggage trunk.

Maisie flung the lid shut and sat on it. As the trunk rattled, Mike and Colin added their weight to hers, and all three of them sat for a moment, panting. Sweat was trickling icy down Mike’s back and he wasn’t entirely sure he could still feel his fingers and toes.

“This was a completely mad idea,” Colin said at last. “Like, Janus Thickey ward mad. You do realise that, don’t you, Maisie?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Maisie reached down to snick the trunk’s fastenings closed, and gave the side a kick as the Boggart thumped against the lid.

“We could have been killed!”

“It’s just a Boggart.”

“It might have been a bloody vampire or something! The Forest is called the Forbidden Forest, isn’t it, not the Inviting Forest or the Great Picnicking Spots Forest! Do you think there might be a reason for that?” 

“Shh!” Mike hissed at them as he realised he could hear something else besides their bickering and the Boggart’s sullen struggles. “Listen!”

They fell silent. Mike strained every sense he had. For an instant he had the eerie sensation that he had left his body, or grown larger than his body: that his awareness extended beyond flesh-and-blood Mike Rowland and could listen as easily to the voices at the fringe of the Forbidden Forest as to his friends beside him —

_“I’m sure it came from down there, like.”_

_“We’ll split up. I’ll take the Centaur’s territory. Hagrid, look down towards the Murky Hollow.”_

_“Me for the edge of the lake, then.”_

With a jolt, Mike was only himself again. “It’s Hagrid! Hagrid and the Headmistress and someone else!”

 Maisie jumped up. “Quick! You two lift the trunk, I’ll find the lantern.”

“I suppose those locks will hold, won’t they?” Colin asked.

“One way to find out.” Mike stood up slowly, and after a moment Colin rose as well.

The trunk shook and rattled, but the lid stayed closed.

“Absolutely mad,” Colin muttered, taking out his wand. “Absolutely bloody mad.”

“Ready?” Mike pointed his own wand. “One, two three —”

“ _Wingardium Leviosa!_ ” they chorused together.

One end of the trunk lifted a few inches from the leaf litter on the forest floor. The other shot up to head-height, so the trunk was almost standing on one end. The Boggart inside gave a series of furious rattles and thumps, making clear what it thought of this state of affairs. Hastily Mike lowered his end of the trunk until it was more level.

Maisie was making scraping noises with something in her hands and muttering furiously to herself.

“Come on!” Colin said, hopping from foot-to-foot in an agony of impatience. “If the Headmistress catches us here, we’ll be expelled!”

“The matches are wet,” Maisie said tightly. “I dropped them when —” Another scraping noise and a tiny flare of light. The next moment the lantern was glowing again. “There. Come on, you two!”

Although Mike had been convinced on their way in that they’d wandered far into the darkest depths of the Forbidden Forest, it was only a few minutes before Maisie’s lantern showed the trees around them thinning. Still, it was a long few minutes, what with trying to avoid tree-roots and sudden holes while keeping the trunk floating more-or-less level. Several times Maisie stopped, and they all held their breath and listened for the sound of a teacher about to discover them. Once they even heard someone crashing around in the distance, and Hagrid’s booming voice calling for his dog Fang.

By the time they scrambled back up the hill towards the castle, Mike was doing almost all the work of keeping the trunk aloft.  Although Colin was doing his best to help his wand hand was trembling with exhaustion and his end of the trunk kept dipping down to drag on the ground. Neither of them had realised that lifting and carrying something so heavy by magic could be as wearying as carrying it by hand, although in a different way.

Mike gritted his teeth against the ache spreading from the back of his head down his spine and lifted Colin’s side as well. _You can do it, you can do it_ _… one hundred more steps, that’s ten times ten. One, two, three …you can do  it, you can do it … ninety more, eighty nine more …_

Finally they were inside the castle. Maisie paused. “We can —”

“Don’t — stop,” Mike panted. “Can’t — lift it — again.”

She nodded, and led the way down the corridor to the stairs that led to the dungeon. Manoeuvring the trunk down the spiral staircase took an agony of concentration and twice Mike would have tripped over his own feet, all his attention on easing the trunk around another corner, if Maisie hadn’t grabbed his arm in time. Then there was a long, agonising creep through the dungeons until the reached the alcove near the Potions classroom that Maisie had selected as the right location to release the Boggart.

With relief, Mike floated the Boggart-trunk into the darkest corner of the alcove and lowered it to the ground, and then slumped to his knees, sweat stinging his eyes as he struggled to get his breath.

“That was amazing, Mike,” Maisie said. “I bet there’s no-one else in our year, or second or third either, who could have got it all that way.”

“We’ve got to get back to bed before we get caught!” Colin whispered.

 Maisie nodded. “No good it all getting ruined now.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Colin hissed at her as he and Maisie took Mike by the arms and heaved him to his feet.

So tired that he couldn’t even care about being caught and expelled, Mike let them steer him, stumbling between them, to the Ravenclaw dormitories.

“What is always coming but never arrives?” the door-knocker asked.

Relieved that he’d already worked it out earlier in the day and didn’t have to cudgel his brain, Mike mumbled, “Tomorrow.”

The door opened and he staggered through, across the common room, and up the stairs to his dormitory, where he fell face down on the bed and went instantly to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The information on Boggarts that Harry tells Mike is from the wiki; the idea that they can be attracted and trapped is entirely my own.  
> Mike’s ability to briefly hear further than normal is a subconscious use of the Supersensory Charm — which he no doubt picked up from his older sister.


	47. Chapter 47: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maisie's plan comes off … almost without a hitch.

 

Hermione surveyed her first year class, the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws who had so far given her more trouble than most other classes combined. “You won’t need your cauldrons today. Take out your text books and turn to page thirty five — Mr Aitkins, where’s Miss Wilkins?”

“She forgot her books,” he said, with a guileless stare that made Hermione instantly suspicious. “She had to go back for them.”

Hermione was tempted to take five points from Hufflepuff for lying, and another five for lying badly. _And if I was any good as a Legilimens I_ _’d be tempted to prove my suspicions right._ “Well, you can catch her up when she gets here. As I was saying, this class is about the theory behind a common potion, the Solution to Hiccoughs — not to be confusion with Hiccoughing Solution, which causes hiccoughs rather than curing them.” She paused to let them write that down. “Now, in your books is one recipe, and here on the board —” She rapped it with her wand and the blank blackboard was suddenly filled with writing. “You’ll see a slightly different recipe. Your task for today is —”

A scream split the air, high, terrified — a child’s scream, somewhere close. 

“Stay here!” Hermione ordered, her wand slipping into her hand without conscious thought as she ran for the door. “Shut the door behind me, and _stay here!_ ”

Another wail of fear, from the left — Hermione ran that way, spared a glance behind her as she rounded the corner and saw the Potions classroom door open, a dozen wide-eyed students peering around the jamb. A wave of her wand slammed it in their faces and Hermione pelted onward.

 _There_. Maisie Wilkins, her bag forgotten by her feet, staring up at the billowing, smoky shape of the Morsmordre hanging in the corridor before her, the snake coiling sinuously through the skull.

Hermione’s blood ran cold. _But they_ _’re all in Azkaban. Harry was so sure …_

_Which means he_ _’s wrong about Snape’s curse …_

There wasn’t time to think about it. She darted forward and seized Maisie by the arm, hauling the girl behind her and then backing them both to the wall. _First rule of fighting Death Eaters. Don_ _’t let them get behind you._

“Did you see who?” she asked, sparing one glance away from the Dark Mark to look down at Masie.

Maisie was white to the lips, her eyes huge. She shook her head silently.

“You’re safe now,” Hermione said, trying to sound like Molly Weasley, like Dumbledore, like any of the adults who had given her the illusion of security when she’d needed it most, at Maisie’s age. “I’m here.”

She looked up again —

The Morsmordre was gone. It was gone, and instead, Severus Snape lay sprawled on the stone flags. He was dressed as for teaching, all in black, his flowing robe a huddle of cloth around his motionless form. In all that black, his face was corpse-white. Above the linen at his neck, Hermione could see the grey of the killing curse, escaped from its confinement, creeping upwards.

He opened his eyes, jet black in a thin face gone carved ivory with pain.  One hand moved slightly, as if he wanted to reach out but couldn’t summon the strength. “Look … at … me …”

“No!” The scream was torn from her, not a sound of her own making but a force rising within her that she was powerless to resist, a desperate, useless denial of the evidence of her own eyes. It climbed inexorably from her chest to her throat and poured from her in an agonised wail that seemed to have no end.

A familiar form leapt in front of her, his back to her and his arms flung wide.

“ _Here_!” Severus Snape shouted, the voice that could silence a classroom at little more than a murmur raised in a baritone boom that seemed to set the stones of the dungeon walls vibrating. He wore only shirt and trousers, his feet bare, and he seemed completely unaware that the unbuttoned cuffs of his shirt left the grey flesh on his left forearm completely visible.

The dead Snape on the floor began to shift and twist.

 _It_ _’s a Boggart, it’s a Boggart, it’s a Boggart …_ Hermione managed to regain enough control over her body to turn and pull Maisie Wilkins into her arms, holding her tightly, as if to shield her from the Boggart but in fact so that she would be unable to see anything but the black robe her face was pressed to.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the Boggart finish changing, saw a woman’s foot sprawled on the flagstones. It moved slightly, and there was a choking whimper, a sound of desperate pain. _Of course. His Boggart must be Lily Potter. Dying Lily Potter._

“ _Riddikulus_ ,” Snape said, almost lazily, and the foot was no longer flesh-and-blood but the foot of a floppy rag doll. “Granger?”

“Alright,” she said tightly, although she was a million miles from alright. Her hands and feet seemed to be a very long way away from the rest of her and only minimally answerable to her instructions, and heat and chill chased each other through her nerves. “You’d better go —” Footsteps were pounding towards them, the nearest members of staff responding to the alarm.

He touched her shoulder for just an instant, so lightly she couldn’t swear it was more than her imagination, and then was gone, his bare feet soundless on the stone floor.

“Who was that?” Maisie asked, muffled by a mouthful of Hermione’s teaching robe. Hermione realised she was holding the girl’s shoulders in a death-grip and forced herself to loosen her fingers a little.

“My — teaching assistant. The one who marks your essays, sometimes.”

Harry hurtled out of the stairway, hair even more every-which-way than usual, wand at the ready, Professor Flitwick a few steps behind him.

“Boggart,” Hermione said. She risked a glance around, and saw nothing. “Gone, but I don’t think banished.”

Harry’s eyebrows went up. “Right in the middle of the corridor?”

Hermione nodded. Her throat felt hot and sore, and she was horribly aware that if she let go of Maisie’s shoulders her hands would start trembling uncontrollably.

Harry gave her one of his uncomfortably keen stares. “Take care of Miss Wilkins. Filius and I will sort the buggering Boggart.”

Students being what they were, a teacher swearing got a snorting giggle from Maisie Wilkins. “Professor Potter!” 

 _Exactly why he did it, of course_. Just as laughter was the way to banish a Boggart, laughter was the best cure for the bone-chilling dread they could induce.

“Back to class,” Hermione said to Maisie, wondering if her voice sounded as strange to the others as it did in her own ears, far away and oddly distorted as if she was hearing herself from underwater. She pushed an unresisting Maisie along the corridor and opened the classroom door manually, not trusting her wand control. “It was a Boggart,” she told her staring students. “Frightening, but harmless. Ask Professors Potter and Weasley what they are in your Defence Against the Dark Arts. Back to work, now.”

They stared at her, unmoving, as she made her way to the front of the class room and sank into her chair.

“Professor …” someone said. “Are you …?”

“If you expect to see the instructions for this lesson written on my forehead, Miss Simpkins, you will be sadly disappointed!” Hermione snapped.

Gazes snapped back to books. Released from the scrutiny, Hermione concentrated on breathing deeply until the tremor in her hands subsided and her limbs began to feel rather more as if they belonged to her.

 _I should have realised straight away it was a Boggart_. But then, she knew what her Boggart was, or she’d thought she did: the fear of failure. It should have been the Headmistress sacking her for being the worst teacher of Potions in the history of Hogwarts. _Of course, you idiot. You should have realised that Severus Snape dying of the curse is what represents failure to you right now, not marks or academic achievement._

She tried not to think about the fact that Snape had undoubtedly seen the form her Boggart had taken, and that he unquestionably had a keen enough intellect to understand what it had meant.

The classroom door opened and every head in the room turned. Harry stood framed in the doorway. “Just wanted to let you all know, the Boggart’s gone,” he said cheerfully. “It got impossibly confused between turning into a spider for Professor Weasley and turning into an out-of-tune soprano for Professor Flitwick and ended up as a sort of arachnid opera singer, which finished it off.” He looked around the room. “You alright there, Wilkins?”

“Yes, sir,” Maisie said, exactly as if she hadn’t been screaming her heart out in the corridor half-an-hour earlier.

“That’s the spirit! We’ll be doing Boggarts in this week’s D.A.D.A class, so you can all save your questions until then.”

With one more keen look at Hermione, he was gone.

Somehow, Hermione got through the rest of the day. She knew, intellectually, that the cold lump that had taken up residence in the pit of her stomach was the aftereffect of the Boggart, but try as she might, she couldn’t come up with any funny variation on the mental image of Severus Snape, dying at her feet.

Dying at her feet, again.

_Look_ _… at … me …_

_This is ridiculous!_ _You faced_ Voldemort _! How can you get yourself in such a state over a_ Boggart _, for Circe_ _’s sweet sake!_

She dismissed her final class fifteen minutes early, told the three students with detentions that they could go, and locked herself in her office. _Something funny_ _… think of something funny …_  

She’d had trouble with Boggarts as a student, had outright failed dealing with one in her D.A.D.A. exam in their third year, but that had been nine years ago. She was an adult now, she’d fought Death Eaters, she couldn’t be in such a state over a silly Boggart, for the love of Merlin! Think of something funny, that was the trick, turn the mental image into —

A knock on her office door interrupted the train of thought circling uselessly around her head. With a flick of her wand she shot back the bolt and opened the door.

There was no-one there, which meant Hermione was unsurprised when the door closed and bolted itself of its own accord. “Professor Snape,” she said.  

He removed the Invisibility Cloak. Beneath it, he was once dressed formally in unrelieved black, buttoned up to the chin.

“Thank you for your assistance, earlier,” Hermione said. “I don’t think that Maisie saw you well enough to recognise you.”

He leaned against the door, studying her. The corners of his mouth turned down, as if he didn’t like what he saw. “What did you tell her?”

“That you were my teaching assistant, the one who occasionally marks essays.”

“And when they ask why they never see me in the classroom?”

Hermione threw up her hands. “I don’t know! I had to say something, didn’t I? Or should I have said I had no idea, but not to worry, strange wizards wandering the school corridors is a perfectly normal occurrence and nothing to be alarmed at?” Hearing her own voice sharp and shrill, she blew out a breath and rubbed her hands over her face. “I’m sorry. I’m still —”

Snape inclined his head a little. “The Boggart.”

She nodded. “I’ve always had trouble with them. Even as a student, everyone else got the hang of _Riddikulus_ in no time, but not me.” She bit her lip. “This time … I’ve always feared failure. At school my Boggart was McGonagall telling me I’d failed every subject. I ran screaming, even though I _knew_ it was a Boggart because it was part of the exam. So that’s why …”  _Look_ _… at … me …_ She shivered at the memory.

“I suppose it was too much to ask to expect you to do the sensible thing, and take yourself off to Potter and Weasley,” Snape said sourly. “Although given your Boggart is failure, it was, perhaps, inevitable that you wouldn’t.”

Hermione blinked at him. “What?”

He stalked towards her. “Wouldn’t admit to your friends that you were overcome by a creature most teenagers can banish.” With a quick, neat movement he produced a flask from somewhere within his coat. “Instead you shut yourself away and risk creating another.”

Hermione frowned. “What’s that?”

“Gigglewater,” Snape said.

Hermione shook her head. “It won’t work. Artificial mirth doesn’t have the same —”

Snape, his face set in his best about-to-eviscerate-a-student expression, cut her off. “It’s for me.”

As she gaped at him, he tossed it back. “Is this a secret vice?” Hermione asked, finding her voice. “Because I have to say, you don’t seem the —”

A deep, rich chuckle cut her off.  Severus Snape, the man whose smile usually meant that something unpleasant was about to happen to somebody else, was laughing. Not, as Hermione would have imagined if the idea had ever crossed her mind, a sinister cackle straight out of the evil mastermind handbook, but the warm sound of a man who’d just heard a truly amusing joke. It changed his whole face, the lines of strain and angular planes rearranged by good humour, his dark eyes lit with merriment.

It was both the most preposterous and the most glorious thing Hermione had ever seen, and she found herself smiling, and then laughing with him — half at the absurdity of Professor Snape on a Gigglewater high and half out of the sheer joy of seeing the sourest, gloomiest teacher in Hogwarts looking, for once, as if ‘happiness’ was more than an entry in a dictionary.

“Thank Merlin,” Snape said, at his absolute driest, as the Gigglewater wore off. “If I’d had to take a second shot I would have found the temptation to Obliviate you afterwards well nigh irresistible.”

The mental image of Severus Snape downing shot after shot of Gigglewater was impossible, and Hermione began to laugh in earnest. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, trying to get a grip on herself. She took a deep breath and managed to regain some composure. “I’m sorry, that’s just —”

“So glad you find me amusing, Professor Granger,” Snape said with exaggerated menace, and reduced her to giggles once more. Just when it seemed she might be able to pull herself together, Snape raised one eyebrow and she was gone again.

By the time he’d stopped provoking her to further hilarity, her sides hurt and her cheeks ached. She leaned back in her chair, feeling rather like a limp rag.

“Better?” Snape asked quietly, no trace of mockery in his tone.

Hermione nodded. “Much. Thank you.”

He turned aside her gratitude with the slightest of shrugs. “Boggarts are among the weakest amortals but they are still creatures of the dark, and not to be underestimated.”

“Why do I have such trouble with them?” She waited, and when he didn’t speak, sat up a little. “Not rhetorical, Professor Snape. You taught Defence Against the Dark Arts. What would your answer be, if I asked you as a student?”

Snape gave a minute shake of his head. “You are _not_ my student.”

“As a colleague, then.”

He was silent so long that Hermione began to think he didn’t mean to answer at all. “The exaggerated terrors of childhood are easy to turn to absurdity.” His voice was no more than a murmur. “For those of us whose fears are rooted in reality, the task is somewhat harder.”

Hermione leaned forward, propping her elbow on her desk and her chin on her hand. “The way Harry was much more affected by the Dementors than anyone else, when they were looking for Sirius?”

Snape nodded slightly. “Similar.”

“So how were _you_ able to send it away?” He raised an eyebrow, and Hermione smiled. “You said ‘those of _us_ ’.”

“A well disciplined mind,” Snape said. He rose from his chair, twitching the skirts of his coat into perfect order. “A resource you would be advised to cultivate, Professor Granger, and not just to improve your Occlumency.”

He was clearly preparing to take his leave, and Hermione found she didn’t want him to go, not yet. “How is your arm today?”

He touched the place the curse had struck. “No worse.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Hermione said. “That means it’s not strictly progressive, more remitting-relapsing.”

Snape frowned, but Hermione had the feeling it was a frown of concentration and not irritation. “That would be unusual.”

“So what does that tell us about the witch or wizard casting it?”

“Perhaps that their power has ebbs and peaks.”

“Is that possible?”

“Very rare.”

“Or he or she renewed the curse, over the last few days,” Hermione said. “Which means they still have access to someone with the Dark Mark.”

“Why now?” Snape said thoughtfully. “He or she must have known almost immediately that the curse had, at least for the moment, failed. Why wait nearly three months to strengthen it? And why no further efforts, today?”

“Lack of access,” Hermione said promptly. “They were on vacation, perhaps. Or … there’s some variation in the guard rosters at Azkaban that means they can’t get regular access to whichever Death Eater they’ve chosen to use.” She pulled a parchment toward her and began to make notes. “That will help Harry.”

“Is he …” Snape paused. In another man, it might have been a hesitation. “Any further forward?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said. “I haven’t had the chance to ask him today.” She finished writing and looked up at him. “He’s probably up in the Room of Requirement right now, working on it. You could go and ask ... ”

Snape’s lip curled. “I have other business to attend to.” With a deft flick, he settled the Invisibility Cloak around himself and disappeared from view.

 _Oh, sure._ _‘Other business’, when the number of people who know you’re alive can be counted on two hands._ Snape just didn’t want to admit he needed help, let alone help from Harry Potter.

Or else he had so little faith in her abilities that he was replicating the task he’d set her, to analyse the alchemical effects of her changes to the potion.

“Suit yourself,” Hermione said to the apparently-empty air, and pulled her notes towards her. _Just let him try and find something wrong with my work._

She’d quite enjoy forcing him to admit he was wrong. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Solution to Hiccoughs is my own invention, not canon, as is the idea that Boggarts leave a lingering effect


	48. Chapter 48: Severus Snape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape investigates …

The dungeons were quiet. Students were safely shut in their common rooms. Snape moved silently through the corridors, his long-perfected ability to appear noiselessly behind students when they least expected him put to a different purpose now.

The Boggart had appeared … _here._

With a careful look around to make sure he was unobserved, Snape shucked the Invisibility Cloak and summoned light to the tip of his wand. _Why here? And how?_ Boggarts did not, as a rule, leave their hiding places unless forced. _One would never wander around in a well-trafficked area like this, not normally._ Were they becoming more aggressive? That would not be a good thing. If Boggarts began to show themselves more openly, it would be inevitable that they would be drawn to populated areas. _And they do not distinguish between wizards and Muggles._

And even if they did, not all witches and wizards were able to deal with them.

 _No surprise that Hermione Granger falls into that group._ She was far too sensible to have ever indulged in irrational fears of spiders, or snakes, or any of the myriad other things most children found to frighten themselves with. A smile touched Snape’s thin lips at the thought of Hermione running screaming from Boggart McGonagall’s news of examination failure. _Still unrealistic, but rooted in reality._

The smile died _. As are her current fears._

He examined the walls of the corridor, looking for some crack or crevice the Boggart might have been nesting in, alert not only for any sound that might indicate that he was about to be discovered, but for the possibility that the Boggart had not been fully banished. It had been an … unsettling encounter, and not one Snape wished to repeat without warning.

A childish wail of terror, echoing off the stone walls of the dungeon corridor, loud enough to be heard in Snape’s quarters even without the alarm wards that all teachers maintained had sent him hurtling through the door without a second thought. It hadn’t been until he was twenty strides from his own door that he’d remembered he was no longer a teacher here, that he was supposed to be unseen, and that he was still half-dressed.

Any half-formed idea of retreating quietly to his rooms and letting someone else deal with the emergency had vanished with Hermione Granger’s scream.

He’d known immediately that it was a Boggart, a simple logical conclusion. _I am quite definitely alive, therefore that is definitely not my dead body, therefore_ _…_

His own corpse, while hardly a sight Snape relished, was far enough from what he feared to be easy to dismiss, but what had followed when he had drawn the Boggart’s attention from the ashen-faced Hermione Granger …

A werewolf, he’d been prepared for. Every Boggart he’d ever faced in adulthood had chosen that form, and he’d grown to quite enjoy dressing Boggart Lupin in a frilly nightgown and a mobcap. _My, what big eyes you have, Remus._ This, though … only years of experience acting and speaking with utmost unconcern while his bowels churned with terror and Voldemort’s eyes bored into his, had allowed Snape to retain the presence of mind to combat the Boggart.

He found an alcove, a slightly more likely hiding place for a Boggart than a corridor. Cautiously Snape stepped into it, sweeping his wand from side to side to illuminate the shadows. _There, in the corner_ _…_

Not a Boggart, but a student’s school trunk. He knelt beside it and read the tag.

_Maisie Wilkins._

Brushing his fingers across the trunk’s interior told him everything he needed to know. _The Boggart was in here._ Had it taken up residence in the Hufflepuff dormitory? He’d only been inside it once or twice, but the bright and cheerful Hufflepuff rooms were very unlikely to draw a Boggart, unless one of the students was having very bad nightmares. _And why not tell Professor Sprout? Why haul the trunk out here — by levitation, unless I am very much mistaken — and leave it near the Potions classroom?_

His nostrils flared. There was a clump of damp leaves stuck to the left lower corner of the trunk. He touched them to be sure, but the scent was unmistakable. _The Forbidden Forest._

The trunk had been in the Forbidden Forest.

_And if the trunk was there, the trunk_ _’s owner was there. And very likely, the Boggart was there._

Snape sat back on his heels. The little fool had not only ventured into the Forbidden Forest, _doubtless doubling her idiocy by going at night_ , but she had done so for the purpose of luring a Dark creature, and, _of all lunatic things_ , capturing it. 

He rose to his feet in one movement and swept the Invisibility Cloak around himself with another. _This cannot be allowed to go unaddressed._

_If twenty years of teaching has taught me anything, it_ _’s that students who start their school careers capturing Boggarts will be raising pet Acromantulas before their O.W.Ls._

_Or worse._

_And why conceal it here, of all places?_

Maisie Wilkins, who shared a desk with Colin Aitkins in Potions … Colin Aitkins, who had taken advantage of Michael Rowland’s oh-so-convenient uncharacteristic mistake to steal from the storeroom …

Snape pinched the bridge of his invisible nose with invisible fingers, an unpleasant suspicion strengthening towards an unfortunate conclusion.

His next stop was the storeroom off the Potions classroom. _Pungeos Onion, Pus, Rat Spleens, Rat Tails_ … yes, definitely fewer in the container than there should be. _Dittany, Doxy venom, Dragon Claw Ooze, Dragonfly Thorax._ A substantial quantity of those missing, as well. 

It was easy to see what had happened. The Boggart, smuggled into the school, hidden near the Potions classroom … _an enterprise beyond a single first year student, even a prodigiously talented one._ Two of them at least had been involved, probably all three. _And then Maisie Wilkins_ _‘discovers’ the Boggart, and Granger goes running to her aid, and in the tumult and confusion her accomplice or accomplices sneak into the storeroom and pilfer their ingredients for broom-handle polish_.

_Something must be done._

He strode through the empty corridors, missing the sweep and swing of his teaching robe. The filmy lightness of the Invisibility Cloak was no substitute. As he reached the ground floor, two giggling seventh year students dashed across the entrance hall and through the front door. Snape followed them and, as he fully expected, saw them disappear hand-in-hand into the hollow behind the rose bushes that generations of students fondly believed to be unknown to staff.

He was tempted to drop a sepulchral _Ten points from Ravenclaw_ for the pleasure of seeing them bolt in fright, but they were old enough to remember him as Headmaster and even to have been in his Defence Against the Dark Arts classes, and they might recognise his voice. _Better not._

Snape left the two boys murmuring sweet nothings to each other behind, and stalked towards the greenhouses.

As he’d anticipated, the lure of adolescent mandrakes had proved irresistible to the two Hogwarts herbologists. Neville Longbottom and Pomona Sprout were sitting side-by-side outside the second greenhouse, peering through the window. Despite the considerable differences between the tall and muscular young wizard and the rotund elderly witch, there was a distinct resemblance between them as they rested their chins on folded arms and watched the mandrakes with rapt attention.

Snape silently summoned a pebble from the ground and sent it floating through the air to nudge Longbottom’s shoe. It took several nudges of increasing force before Longbottom could be distracted from the mandrakes, and several more before he had the sense to look around.

Letting a hand show from beneath the cloak, Snape crooked a finger, and then turned and moved silently toward the fringes of the Forbidden Forest.

He had time to find a convenient fallen tree on which to sit, arrange himself as comfortably as possible, and begin to wonder if Longbottom had gotten lost on the way down the hill, before the man himself appeared.

“Sir?” Longbottom said quietly.

Snape shrugged off Potter’s cloak. “Longbottom.”

The younger man’s face split into a broad grin. “Professor! It’s so good to see you! I mean, it was brilliant to find out you were, you know …”

“Not dead,” Snape supplied acidly.

“Yeah, that. But it was hard to really believe it, you know? And now …”

He took a step closer, and Snape held up one hand. “If you attempt to embrace me, Longbottom, I won’t be answerable for my actions.”

His words did not have the desired quelling effect. Neville only guffawed, and sat down next to Snape. “You haven’t changed.”   

Snape eyed him. “You have.”

“Grew into my ears, Gran says.”

“A difficult task, given what I remember of you at eleven. Almost impossible, I would have thought.” 

Even that failed to intimidate Longbottom. He only grinned happily, and said, “That’s what Gran says, too.”

Never one to admit defeat, Snape considered his next remark. “And how is your —” He raised his eyebrows and gave the next word a delicate emphasis. “Toad?”

“Trevor? Happy in the Black Lake. I see him occasionally, when I’m down there. He always comes to say hello.”

 _Hopeless._ A temporary tactical withdrawal was clearly called for. “I came to speak to you about two of your students. Maisie Wilkins and Colin Aitkins.”

“What have they done now?” Longbottom asked instantly.

“Released a Boggart in the dungeon,” Snape said succinctly. “Why? What have they done _before_?” 

Longbottom gaped at him. “A Boggart? Where would they get a Boggart?”

“I suspect the Forbidden Forest.”

“Blimey.” Longbottom stood up abruptly. “Bloody hell. They could have come across anything in there.”

“Quite.”

“Hermione caught them out after hours on their first night, them and Michael Rowland,” Longbottom said. “But a _Boggart!_ The Forbidden Forest!”

“On the up-side, it does demonstrate both enterprise and a certain grasp of magical principles unusual in first year students.”

 Longbottom snorted. “You wouldn’t say that if you were still teaching.”

“No,” Snape agreed. “I might think it, but what I would say would involve the words _detention_ , _every Saturday_ , and _the rest of your life._ ” He crossed his legs and folded his hands on his knee. “Something must be done about those three, Longbottom, particularly as this escapade with the Boggart was merely their attempt at creating a diversion. If that is their idea of a mild distraction, I shudder to think what they might come up with in what they considered a real emergency.”

“I’ll talk to them,” Longbottom promised. “I’ll explain that —”

Snape sighed. “Professor Longbottom. Cast your mind back to your own school days. No doubt an _explanation_ would have worked wonders on _you_. But on some of your classmates? Can you really imagine Potter and Weasley meekly deciding to give up midnight exploits because someone had _explained_ the danger?”

That made the herbologist guffaw again. “No, I can’t really see that.”

Snape unlaced his fingers and then laced them again. “Professor Granger has, and I hesitate to dignifying it with the term, _an idea_. She is of the opinion that the three miscreants can be steered to productive, and harmless, activities.”

“Like extension classes?” Longbottom asked.

“Like a _quest_.” Snape put all the acid contempt he could summon into the word. “One they will believe they are undertaking secretly, involving a series of tasks that will require them to research, and study, and apply themselves in class to complete.” He paused. “And one that will keep them far too busy to embark on any frolics of their own.”

Longbottom frowned. “And you want me to stop her? I mean, when Hermione gets an idea in her head …”

Snape shook his head. “I mention it to you because, as unlikely as I find it, I seek your opinion. Minerva tells me you are closely involved in the management of Hufflepuff House — it’s clear Pomona intends you to take her position as Head of House as well as Professor of Herbology when she eventually retires. And you are, according to both Minerva and Poppy, eminently …” He paused, and then spat the word out. “ _Sensible_.”

Longbottom had the nerve to smile at him. “Was that a compliment?”

“Don’t get used to it,” Snape sneered.

“I’m not that silly,” Longbottom said cheerfully. 

  _First Potter, now Longbottom. I_ _’m losing my touch._ Although, thinking about it, his contact with students after they graduated had always been extremely limited, by both their choice and his. Professor Snape, the terror of the Potions classroom, was not the sort of teacher former students sent Christmas cards to, _thank Merlin_ , and for his part, seven years exposure to any single spotty adolescent had never engendered any fonder feeling than a profound desire to never look on them again.

Perhaps all his former students, if he met them again, would have developed the ability to let his barbs slide harmlessly past them. _Or perhaps it_ _’s unique to those who’ve defied Voldemort._ “Am I still your Boggart, Longbottom?”

Longbottom snorted. “Not likely. Once you’ve seen Harry Potter apparently dead and told Voldemort to fuck right off, a teacher doesn’t really cut it when it comes to bowel-churning terror.”

“No, I daresay not.” Snape paused. “A shame. It was flattering to know I outranked Bellatrix Lestrange as your personal nightmare. So, Granger’s idea. Your opinion?”

“It could work, I suppose. Give them something to do.” Longbottom shot him a sideways look. “I suppose you don’t approve.”

“On the contrary.” Snape gave him a thin smile. “In the six years Granger, Potter and Weasley attended this school, I was savaged by a three-headed dog, set on fire, forced to referee a Quidditch match, concussed, and, oh yes, obliged to remain on good terms with _Dolores Umbridge_. I am very much looking forward to watching Professor Granger experience similar … inconveniences.”

Longbottom found that hilarious, just exactly the way —

Snape forced himself to speak past the sudden ache in his left arm. “Do you have any ideas as to the abilities and interests of Wilkins and Aitkins?”  

 “Wilkins, she wants to get on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team.”

“That explains the broom handle polish,” Snape said, and shook his head at Longbottom’s enquiring look. “Doesn’t matter. Seeker, I suppose?”

“Beater.” 

Snape raised his eyebrows. “Ambitious, for an eleven-year-old.”

“She’s solid, and Ginny says she’s got a good eye and a strong arm.”

 _A lever, then, or some similar mechanical device — something out of reach that can only be triggered with an object struck at it._ “And Aitkins?”

“He’s asked me about killing Nagini five times,” Longbottom said. “I think he wishes he’d been Sorted into Gryffindor.”

“Yes, I don’t believe I’ve thanked you for avenging me,” Snape said dryly.

Neville grinned. “Preemptively, as it turned out. I’m glad.”

“Preemptive revenge is infinitely preferable,” Snape said.  “And, if not me, at least you avenged Charity Burbage.”

“Worth doing,” Neville said, with an adult grimness that was completely at odds with every recollection Snape had of him. “She — you were friends, people say.”

_Please, Severus_ _…_

Snape swallowed bile. “Nonsense. I don’t have friends, Longbottom, it’s a well known fact. So Aitkins wants glory.”

His voice sounded odd in his ears but he must have achieved the dismissive tone he’d been striving for, because Longbottom took the change of subject. “I think he wants to be brave, rather. Wishes he was braver. He’s small for his age.”

“A test of courage, then.”

“And Rowland?” Longbottom asked.

“He shows potential in Potions. I’ll turn my mind to an appropriate task.”

“And what’s the point of the quest?”

“Granger has already resolved that it is to be ‘the Quidditch Key’.”

“You’ll need a monster,” Neville said. “All good quests have a monster. Borrow one from Hagrid?”

“No,” Snape said, inspiration striking. “No. An appropriate guardian of the Quidditch Key, terrifying to eleven-year-old students, yet one that will not put them in actual physical peril …” He smiled in satisfaction. “It can only be Argus Filch.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve adjusted the canonical mandrake’s growing seasons for the purpose of this story


	49. Chapter 49: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hermione contends with Slytherins past and present.

The note was tucked under a pile of marked essays on her desk when Hermione reached her classroom the next morning — unsigned, unaddressed. The handwriting was very upright, the quill scoring deep into the paper on the descenders, the ‘t’s’ crossed so energetically the bar shadowed the letters before and after — the instantly-recognisable handwriting that had recorded thousands of scathing comments on her Potions essays over the years. _Severus Snape_.

She didn’t have time to read it until she’d set her fourth-year class to brewing Wit-Sharpening Potion. After a quick stroll around the desks to make sure they were cutting their ginger roots to the right size, she settled in her chair and plucked the note from under its concealing essays — _the letter_ , she corrected herself when she saw its length.

 _Based on the evidence, it my conclusion that the Boggart was transported into the dungeons and released by Wilkins, Aitkins, and Rowland, to provide a distraction for their theft of ingredients from the classroom storeroom (successful)_.

_Given their established potential for mischief creating actual hazard to the staff and students of this school, your plan may have some merit (expulsion, while preferable, is unlikely to meet Minerva_ _’s approval)._

_Order Hungarian Hiccoughing Gas from Weasleys_ _’ Wizard Wheezes (you will inevitably find at least one catalogue on demanding any given class of students empty their bags)._

_Ascertain a suitable location within the castle. It must include both a confined space, and a separate, larger one, and be out of the usual areas students frequent._

_Leave the_ _“Quidditch Key” in the drawer of this desk._

Hermione read it twice, frowning the first time, smiling the second. It was completely typical of Severus Snape to be issuing instructions to her about what was, after all, her idea. Once her irritation faded, she could read between the lines of his spiky penmanship. _Some merit, hah! He_ _’s admitting he’s wrong._

She slipped the heavy key she’d appropriated from the Room of Requirement into the drawer of her desk, and placed a check-mark next to that instruction. Hungarian Hiccoughing Gas was easy — she didn’t need a catalogue, she just needed to Floo George this evening. _Pending_ , she inked on the parchment.

 _A suitable location_ _… somewhere students won’t stumble on it accidentally …_ She chewed her lip for a moment, running through the vast array of forbidden places she and Harry and Ron had explored over their years as students. Finally she wrote _Fifth floor, west corridor, unused classroom (third door)_ and shoved the letter back under the pile of essays.

 That was the last moment she had to consider anything other than teaching for the rest of the day.   Getting her fourth year students through Wit Sharpening Potion without any accidental poisonings or explosions took so much concentration that Hermione felt rather in need of a dose of it herself by the time they’d cleaned up their cauldrons and made their way out. _What is there so difficult to understand about lime green? Lime green, the same colour as a lime, not forest green or pale green or turquoise!_

She made a note to visit a Muggle hardware store at the next possible opportunity and collect a bunch of paint chip charts, and prepared to welcome her N.E.W.Ts students. While there was considerably less danger to life and limb in a classroom full of seventh-year students, Hermione found them exhausting in a different way. Unlike the younger students, who still regarded all adults as approximately the same venerable age, Marcus Selwyn and his classmates were practically adults themselves — the same age as Hermione had been, and Harry and Ron, when they’d set out to destroy Voldemort’s Horcruxes single-handedly. Hermione was sharply aware that they couldn’t help seeing her as a near-contemporary. 

“For the next month you’ll be working on Polyjuice Potion,” she told them. “This is a difficult potion that requires perfect measurement, perfect timing, and the intuition and delicate touch that true mastery of potions demands. The brewing instructions —” A wave of her wand revealed it. “Is on the board. Your first task is to copy it down precisely. I will not be checking your work — nor will you have another opportunity to see the recipe. Any errors you make in transcription will spoil your potion and be a waste of the month’s work.” A hand went up from the Slytherin side of the room. “Yes, Miss Firesmith?”

Fiona Firesmith, a slender witch with perfectly sleek dark hair cut into a perfect bob, widened her eyes in theatrical curiosity. “Is it true you tried to make Polyjuice Potion and turned yourself into a cat?”

“No,” Hermione said. A low murmur ran around the room, and Hermione heard someone mutter _Liar._ “Express your question more precisely, Miss Firesmith.” She paused for emphasis, and then drew on memories of her own time as a student in this very classroom. “And address it _appropriately_ , if you don’t desire detention.”

Marcus Selwyn raised his own hand. “Professor Granger. There is a rumour that you accidentally turned yourself into a cat with Polyjuice Potion. Does the rumour have any basis in fact, and if so, what is it?”

Hermione gave him an approving nod. “Well phrased, Mr Selwyn. First of all, it’s impossible to change species using Polyjuice. You can change your age, your sex, your appearance, your height, skin colour, eye colour — but only into the resemblance of another human being. So no, I did not turn myself into a cat, either accidentally or deliberately. What I _did_ do, after brewing Polyjuice Potion correctly, was accidentally add cat hair rather than human hair at the final stage of the brewing. While I remained human, I did acquire fur, whiskers, pointed ears … and a tail.” There was a single guffaw, quickly stifled, from the Gryffindor side of the room. Hermione smiled. “And no, before you ask, there are _not_ any pictures.” 

Fiona Firesmith raised her hand again. “Professor Granger,” she drawled, with a degree of contempt in her tone that would have done credit to Severus Snape. “Do you really think it appropriate that someone capable of such a basic mistake be in charge of preparing us for our N.E.W.Ts?”

“First, given that the Headmistress was well aware of the incident at the time and still chose to offer me this job, I defer to her judgement,” Hermione said, very careful to keep her voice steady and even. “Secondly, given that I made that mistake in my second year,  then yes, I do think it’s appropriate that I be teaching you. You should be aware by this stage of your education that it takes a very high quality Polyjuice potion indeed to have any effect at all with that error. If you can find someone else who successfully brewed an impeccable Polyjuice Potion at the age of thirteen, then by all means, suggest to Professor McGonagall that she hire _them_. And thirdly, you all now have less than fifteen minutes before I erase the board, so I suggest you pick up your pens.”

“ _Some_ of us can afford to _buy_ a copy of brewing instructions,” Fiona said, ostensibly to her bench-mate but loudly enough for the rest of the class to hear.

“And some of us know how to read and write, but you don’t see us rubbing _your_ nose in it,” one of the Gryffindors shot back.

Fiona leapt to her feet, wand out. Stools scraped on the stone floor as several Gryffindors scrambled up as well, pulling out their own wands. Fiona levelled her wand. “ _Sno —_ ”

“ _Immobulus_!” Hermione snapped. Fiona froze, and Hermione turned the same spell on the Gryffindors, freezing them as well. “ _Expelliarmus_!” Wands flew from the culprits’ hands.  “ _Accio_!”

She caught the four wands as they sailed towards her. Not having Harry’s Seeker reflexes, she had to juggle a bit to get hold of the last one, but managed not to embarrass herself by dropping it.

Every student not frozen in place was staring at her, wide-eyed. For a moment, Hermione could only stare back, heart racing, fight-or-flight adrenaline still flooding her veins.

Very carefully, she set the students’ wands down on her desk, keeping hold of her own. “Those of you able to move, return to your seats, pick up your quills, and copy the brewing instructions on the board.” Perhaps it was the wand still ready in her hand, but there was a sudden rush of movement and in seconds the only sound in the room was the scratching of quills on parchment. 

Hermione made her way to the back of the classroom. “When I release you,” she said quietly to the four culprits, “you will walk — _silently_ — out into the corridor. Or I will put you in a Full Body Bind and _float_ you to your Head of House. _Finite Incantatem_.”

The three Gryffindors walked quietly and obediently out of the classroom. Fiona Firesmith _sauntered_.

Hermione gritted her teeth, and followed.

“Regardless of what your Head of House decides, each of you just lost twenty-five points for your House for drawing your wands in my classroom, and earned yourselves two weeks’ detention. Miss Firesmith, another twenty-five points from Slytherin for your attempted Pus-Squirting Hex. Your wands will remain with me until I decide you are responsible enough to —”

“But —”

“Five points from Gryffindor for interrupting me!” Hermione snapped. “I know you’ll need them for Charms and Transfiguration, so you’d better work on proving how responsible you are as quickly as possible!  Miss Firesmith, I believe at this time of day you will find Professor Sinistra in the staffroom. The rest of you, straight to the Training Grounds. And I _will_ be checking with Professor Sinistra and Madam Hooch later today, so it would be smart to be frank with them.”

She watched them go, and then went back into the classroom.

After putting in a brief appearance at lunch — all the while thinking about the marking she should be doing — the afternoon brought Hermione its own challenges, including a third year class that managed to create three different poisonous odours while following the same recipe for Shrinking Solution. By the time it was over, Hermione wanted nothing more than to run a hot bath and soak until her fingers and toes were wrinkled like prunes. The last thing she wanted to do was supervise detention.

She watched the students currently in disgrace file into the classroom with resignation. _You can_ _’t always get what you want._

Setting the four seventh year miscreants an essay on the importance of restraint in the use of magic, Hermione turned to her marking.

She had just finished reading and annotating a three foot essay on variant recipes for Blood-Replenishing Potion — written by a Ravenclaw, and two feet longer than required — when her subconscious told her that there was something not right in the classroom.

She looked up. _Three Gryffindors, heads bent, quills scratching busily across parchment. One second year, scrubbing cauldrons by hand. On fourth year, dissecting Horned Toads._

One seventh year Slytherin, quill idle, gazing blankly into space.

_Oh, for Circe_ _’s sweet sake!_

Hermione put down her quill and stood up. A dozen Snape-worthy comments occurred to her: starting with the relatively mild _That essay won_ _’t write itself, Miss Firesmith_ and ranging all the way up to _If you_ _’re reluctant to write down your thoughts because you fear looking like a fool … too late._

She resisted the temptation. Instead, she crossed the classroom and sat down on the stool next to Fiona. The parchment in front of the girl was completely blank.

“The longer you delay writing that essay, the longer you’ll be waiting to get your wand back,” Hermione said.

Fiona shot her a look of such pure hatred that Hermione had to suppress the instinct to recoil. “You had no right. You have no right to take a witch’s wand.”

Hermione folded her hands on the bench and forced herself to lean closer to the girl. “Actually, not true. You drew your wand to fight, and I disarmed you. Not only did I have the right to take it, I have the right to keep it — forever, if I like.”

“It wasn’t fair,” Fiona muttered. “You ambushed me.”

“You drew first,” Hermione reminded her. “You had even started to hex before I did a thing. Now. Write your essay, or I _will_ keep your wand.”

With another furious glare, Fiona picked up her quill, dipped it, and began to write.

Hermione watched her for a moment to make sure she kept writing and then went back to her desk.

At the end of the hour, she dismissed the delinquents, waited until the room was empty, and said quietly, “Professor Snape?”

Silence was the stern reply.

She riffled through the essays on her desk, but Snape’s letter was gone — as was the key, when she opened the drawer of her desk.

_Fifth floor, west corridor._

Her teaching robe rippling and flapping behind her, Hermione headed that way.


	50. Chapter 50: Severus Snape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape carries out his plan.

Snape was putting the finishing touches on the first stage of the Quest for the Quidditch Key when the door between the west corridor and the landing rattled. It was locked, of course, and so he ignored it. _Perhaps a flaming sword_ _… that should be appropriately terrifying and prevent them from thinking of outright combat …_

“ _Alohomora!_ ” Even through the door, Hermione Granger’s voice was distinctive. The lock yielded to her spell.

The bolt that Snape had shot home as an added precaution did not. _Now, should it appear half-way up the corridor? Or closer to the door?_

“ _Bombarda!_ ”

That did for the bolt.

Snape turned to see Granger silhouetted in the doorway, the door flat on the floor and smoking slightly. “Subtle.”

She stomped inside, lifted the door with a wave of her wand and slammed it back into place. “Fiona Firewater needs to be taken down a peg or two.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Is this another of those conversations where you have had the first five minutes of it without me?”

Granger glared at him. “Seventh year. Slytherin. Hates me.”

Snape shrugged. “Have you tried hating her back?”

“Yes, because that will make everything better,” Granger snapped. “I’ll give her justification for her grudge, that will resolve the situation in no time.”

“Don’t be sarcastic,” Snape said. His lip curled in a sneer. “You don’t have a talent for it.”

“I’m not being sarcastic, I’m bloody furious! She tried to hex a student in class today and gave me attitude over taking her wand.”

Snape raised his eyebrows. “I presume you gave her detention?”

“Of course I did, along with an essay on the responsible use of magic and the need for restraint.”

“Manually cleaning the Potions classroom would be more effective.”

“As a punishment, maybe, but not to teach her what she really needs to know, which is to stop being such a bitch.” Granger threw up her hands. “Honestly, I have no idea how she made it this far without someone teaching her a lesson. I mean, I know Draco was given far too much rope in our day, but there was a war on. The educational standards here are abysmal!”

“Says the Professor planning to entangle her students in an invented quest for an imaginary magical object.”

She levelled one forefinger at him. “Don’t change the subject! This school has a responsibility —”

“Which. It. Meets,” Snape bit out. “This is not a local comprehensive, Granger, and the students here are capable of rather more mischief than pushing each other over in the playground. Instilling a few principles of moral behaviour is a _bonus_ when one’s greatest concern is making sure none of our alumni accidentally level the centre of London in a fit of pique. If your student has reached her N.E.W.Ts, she has clearly learnt what she needs to learn.”

“You can’t turn out students who think they can hex someone for insulting them!”

“Again, Granger, you make assumptions. Hogwarts can’t turn out students who can’t cast charms reliably, brew potions accurately, and who hex people accidentally. If they do so deliberately, there are Aurors for that.”

“And meanwhile, Fiona carries on regardless?”

Snape shrugged, careful to turn his wrists a little to convey just how absolute his indifference was. “I believe the Muggle term is ‘character building’. At least for her classmates. Now. Stand back, and observe.”

He’d spent several hours on the illusion charm, and when the ghostly figure with its flaming sword came roaring down the corridor, Granger gave a gratifying squeak of alarm and raised her wand.

Snape allowed himself a smile of satisfaction and banished the illusion with a flick of his own wand.

“Why —” Granger started to say, cleared her throat, and tried again. “Why is it Gandalf?”

Snape frowned at her. “If this is your way of inducing me to ask what a ‘gandalf’ is …”

“He’s a who,” Granger said quickly. “A character. In a book. And a film. Who looks very much like that.”

“I was aiming for ‘generic wizard’,” Snape said.

“Clearly, so was Peter Jackson,” Granger said. “But they might have seen the film, so perhaps you could change it?  Make it a bit less, um. Beardy. And younger? Maybe female, even.” She cleared her throat. “What does it do? Besides rush and bellow?”

“A small fear charm, if they are foolish enough to stand their ground long enough for it to get close to them.”

“And how are they supposed to get past it?”

“Quietly.” Snape sent a beam of light from his wand to illuminate the other end of the corridor, where the model for the ghost stood — one of the innumerable statues that filled the halls and rooms of Hogwarts. Above it was his own addition: _Woe betide who disturbs my sleep._ He frowned, considering. _If I alter the apparition illusion as Granger suggests, I will have to alter the statue_ _’s appearance as well._

“So it will be sound activated?” Granger said, proving that she had not lost the ability to state the blindingly obvious. “That’s why you want the Hungarian Hiccoughing Gas.”

“I recall from your lesson plan that they are due to study the Solution to Hiccoughs this month.”

Granger nodded. “In fact, that was the lesson the Boggart interrupted. So this challenge will test … courage, of course, because they’ll have to return having been chased out once. And brewing.”

Snape inclined his head.  “That will rely on Rowland’s expertise. Longbottom tells me Aitkins aspires to heroics, so this particular trial is suited to him, as well.” He paused. “Let us hope that they do not resort to another Boggart to acquire the ingredients.”

Granger gave a wry smile. “I’ll think of a way they can nab them without such extreme measures. How much time do I have?”

“Sufficient. I intend to insert a small reference to the Key in one of the Library books. It will take them time to uncover it, and decide they really want to find it.”

Granger chuckled. “Don’t let Irma Pince catch you. What else did Neville say?”

“That it would be fruitless to try and dissuade you from this ill-conceived enterprise,” Snape said. “That Wilkins aspires to become a Beater. Both things I already knew.”

“So what test will Maisie have to overcome? Something on a broom?”

“Yes, because encouraging students to fly indoors in confined spaces is so extraordinarily safe.”

Granger only laughed, further confirmation that Snape was losing his edge. 

“What, then?”

“Come.” He led the way to the disused classroom at the end of the corridor. Granger gasped as she stepped through the door, which was gratifying — Snape had spent several hours on the Extension charms and other spells that had transformed it from a dusty room cluttered with abandoned desks to its current satisfyingly imposing form.

Granger walked slowly to the centre of the huge space, head back as she scanned the ceiling. Anticipating yet another attempt to break her own neck by tripping on her robe, Snape fingered his wand, but she reached the middle of the room without mishap. “What happens next?”

“Surely a puzzle designed for an eleven-year-old mind is not too complex for your own?”

She turned slowly in place, and he saw her face brighten. “Aha! Levers. On opposite sides of the room, clever. At least two of them will have to get through the corridor to be able to beat this.”

“Three,” Snape corrected. He crossed to the closest lever, and gestured to the other. “If you would?”

“On three,” Granger said cheerfully, taking hold of the other lever. “One, two, three!” Stone rumbled overhead, and Granger tilted her head back again. “What was — oh, I see.” She gazed up at the alcove that had opened far overhead and the small lever inside it, forehead wrinkled. “I thought you said they wouldn’t have to fly.”

“They won’t,” Snape said. “Indeed, when I’ve finished the charms on this room, they won’t be _able_ to. Come on, Granger. What do Beaters do?”

“They hit the Bludgers —” she began automatically, and then her mouth opened and stayed that way for several seconds before she shut it with a snap. “That’s an awfully long way up.”

“I do apologise,” Snape said silkily. “I was under the impression that you wanted this to be _challenging._ Allow me a few moments, and I will lower the target to knee-height. Would you like me to make sure the outer corridor is guarded by kittens, as well?”

_That_ brought a flush to her cheeks, he was pleased to see. “Challenging doesn’t mean impossible.”

“If you had spent more of your school years watching Quidditch for the game, and less time looking for teachers to incinerate, you would know that any decent Beater could easily hit an object that far.”

“That was only once,” Hermione said tightly. “I only did that once.”

“Once was more than enough.”

She cleared her throat. “ _Anyway._ What happens when they manage to hit the lever? The Quidditch Key drops on their heads?”

“A disembodied voice,” Snape said, with satisfaction. “Conveying a message which they must decipher, to locate the monster they must confront to finally gain the Key.”

 Granger gave him a sideways look. “I’m beginning to feel you’re enjoying this.”

He gave her his most haughty look. “Nonsense. This ridiculous twaddle is beneath me, or any other witch or wizard with sufficient skills to seek employment more advanced than entertaining at children’s parties. I merely wish to make sure you don’t endanger your students by attempting it yourself.”

Her lips twitched. “You’re putting a lot of thought and effort into something you don’t enjoy.”

“Granger, the purpose of this is to keep your troublesome troika occupied and out of trouble for the rest of the year. That will hardly be achieved without a sufficient number of steps to be completed, each with their own inbuilt delays. Deciphering the message will preoccupy them for several weeks.”

“What’s the message, then? And what’s the monster?”

Snape paused. “The message is … pending.”

“You mean you haven’t worked it out yet?” Hermione asked.

He drew himself up to his full height. “Do excuse me, Professor Granger, I was —” He stopped, realising she was laughing.

“This is amazing,” she said, turning around again to gaze at the cavernous space. “It must have taken you all day. I can’t even see the seams on the extension charms!” She paused, and then turned to look at him, a frown wrinkling her forehead. “It wasn’t too much, was it? You didn’t tire yourself?”

 He scowled at her. “Granger …”

She put her hands on her hips. “Don’t glare at me! I appreciate the help, but it would be bloody silly for you to speed up the curse just for this!”

“I assure you,” Snape said icily, “these parlour tricks hardly taxed my strength.”

“Show me your arm,” Granger demanded. 

Snape drew his arm toward his chest, realised he was doing it, and stood still. “Unnecessary.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Granger snapped. “It’s all data. It got worse after your Legilimency, didn’t it? Then it stopped. If it’s worse now, that means it _is_ to do with —”

“Any number of things,” Snape said. “My assailant might have gained access to his conduit again. The erratic effect of the potion you devised may have manifested itself once more.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m surprised, Professor Granger. I would have expected your studies to have cured your lamentable tendency to allow your theories to advance ahead of your facts.”

“Yes, well, unfortunately, we don’t have a control group, do we,” Granger said tightly. Her wand was in her hand. “Are you going to unbutton your sleeve, or do I cut it open?”

Snape narrowed his eyes. Granger gave every impression of being entirely serious. _Of course, given how she usually dresses, she would have no idea what decent tailoring actually costs._ Not that she had any real chance of an offensive spell hitting home, but who knew what damage it might do to the spells he’d spent … longer than he cared to admit … creating?

Scowling at her, he unbuttoned the cuff of his coat, then his shirt, and pushed his sleeve up. He had no need to see the withered flesh again to know it was there, and kept his gaze fixed on the wall.

Until Granger breathed “Nimue’s new knickers,” and grabbed his wrist. Startled, he looked down as he pulled away —

And froze. _Not possible._

“I would have said there was less than an inch to your elbow, the other night,” Granger said. “Now …” Careful not to touch him, she measured off the distance from the crook of his elbow to the upper edge of the grey, dead skin of the curse.

All four of her fingers. Twice.

She let go of his wrist and looked up at him, eyes wide. “Did you do something? A new potion? A spell?”

“No.” Snape tried to tear his gaze from the miraculously shrunken oval of cursed flesh, and failed. “No, nothing except to continue to take the potion you devised.”

“ _We_ devised,” Granger corrected with a small smile. “And you’ve been working all day, so the flare-up wasn’t fatigue, was it? And if the person doing this did their worst the other day, well, it wasn’t very effective, was it?”

“One more conclusion,” Snape said. “Your misgivings about the potion were unnecessary. It clearly continues to work.”

Her smile grew, until it was so brilliant it could only be described as beaming. _Or ridiculous._

“There is no need to get ahead of yourself,” he said as repressively as he could.

It failed to put a dent in her happiness. “I’m not,” she said simply. “The only way to finish it for good is to find out who’s doing it, I know that. But now we have enough time.” Her eyes glistened, and Snape realised with alarm she was about to start leaking tears again.

“I will need all the time I can get if I’m to correct some of your absurd ideas about coddling students,” he said acidly.

Hermione laughed, and sniffed, and turned away for a moment. When she turned back Snape was relieved to see she had composed herself. “So,” she said. “The final clue, which is pending — what does it need to lead to?”

Snape told her, and the huge room echoed with Hermione Granger’s laugher.

 

 

 


	51. Chapter 51: Harry Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione on a crusade, the Minister of Magic, and a conspiracy … just an ordinary day for Harry Potter.

 

“I need to talk to you,” Hermione said the second Harry’s backside hit the seat of his chair at the teacher’s table.

“Can I have my tea first?” It was a rhetorical question, and Harry knew it even as he asked it.

“Did you know that students can get all the way to their N.E.W.Ts without learning enough restraint not to hex people?”

Harry reached past her for the teapot and filled his cup. “I hadn’t really thought about it, but having spent six years in the same classes as Crabbe and Goyle, I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“I’m not joking,” Hermione hissed.

“Neither am I.” He blew on his tea to cool it. “I suppose if they got really out of hand, they’d be suspended or expelled.”

“Draco wasn’t,” Hermione reminded him. “He went full Death Eater while a student of this school, which I’d call _comprehensively_ out of hand.” 

“Not full Death Eater. He couldn’t kill Dumbledore, could he? And the teachers wanted to keep an eye on him. Pass the kippers, will you?”

Hermione set the platter in front of him with a _thump_ that made the fish bounce. “It’s disgraceful. This is supposed to be an educational institution. It’s the _only_ school in Britain for witches and wizards. And we’re not educating them in the most important thing!”

“We are, though.” Although he didn’t have high hopes of enjoying them in anything like peace, Harry piled kippers on his plate and put an egg on top. “We’re educating them to be in control of their magic and not do things like, I don’t know, accidentally inflating annoying aunts.”

“And how are they going to get on after school if they fling hexes when they’re vexed?” Hermione, being Hermione, passed him the baked beans without being asked, even if she did set them down with another _thump_.

Harry shrugged. “Badly, and not for long, but that’s their look-out.” He heaped beans over the egg, and picked up his knife and fork. “I’m doing my best to drill it into the heads of my students that malicious magic has consequences, but there’s always unpleasant people, aren’t there? And some of them are witches and wizards.”

“You sound like — _someone_.” She gave the last word heavy meaning, and being Hermione and about as subtle as the Whomping Willow, waggled her eyebrows at him as well.

Harry paused, heaped fork halfway to his mouth, and raised his eyebrows at her. “He told you the same thing?”

Hermione nodded. “And frankly, if you share an educational philosophy with _him_ , you should rethink your position.”

“Well, what do you expect any of us to do about it, apart from detentions and lectures on responsibility?”

She explained, at length, which put paid to the idea of breakfast in peace but at least spared Harry the need to say anything except the occasional grunt of agreement — which he could do with his mouth full.

“So you see, an emphasis on personal responsibility and instruction in empathy as a quality to aspire to,” she finished, as Harry mopped up the last of the eggy beans with a piece of toast, “would work wonders for —”

“Absolutely,” he said firmly. “I will definitely adapt my lessons to include that. Alright?”

“Thanks, Harry. I knew I could count on you!” Hermione gave him a broad smile that made Harry think uneasily that he should have paid more attention to the rest of the conversation, snatched a piece of toast, and dashed off.

Setting aside whatever problems Hermione’s latest crusade might cause, Harry poured himself another cup of tea and surveyed the Great Hall. There was a student with a Ravenclaw collar on his robes at the Hufflepuff table, and after a moment he put a name to the face. _Michael Rowland._ The one with natural talent. He was leaning over the table, talking to Maisie Wilkins, who didn’t think she was _significantly evil_ , and Colin Aitkins, whose speed in raising his hand in class almost rivalled Hermione’s.

“The Tiresome Trio.” Ron took the seat Hermione had vacated. “Oh, kippers!”

“The what?”

Ron nodded in the direction of Mike, Colin, and Maisie. “Hermione’s Trying Triad. Pinching potions ingredients, out after hours. She has a _plan_ to deal with them.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Harry said, and Ron chuckled.

“I said we’d help her with it.”

“Oh, _Merlin._ ” Harry turned to stare at him. “What’s the plan, then? That you’ve committed us to helping with?” 

“A quest.” Ron shovelled food on to his plate: sausages, eggs, black sausage, fried tomato. “The Quidditch Key.”

“The _what?_ ”

“It’s a magical key that attracts the Golden Snitch.” Only years of listening to Ron talk with his mouth full enabled Harry decipher the sentence. “Only, not really. Really it’s just an old key.”

Harry closed his eyes for a moment. “You know, I really miss the days when Hermione had only one grand obsession on the go at a time.”

Ron snorted. “Multitasking, it’s all the rage in Muggle circles these days, according to Dad. What else is she on about, then? Apart from the obvious.”

“Remedial morality. Teaching students to be … I’m not entirely sure. Nicer.”

“She’s just still annoyed about all the times we got her detention,” Ron said wisely.

“Got _her_ detention, half the truly mad stuff was her idea in the first place!”

Ron grinned at him. “Don’t tell Hermione. She’s convinced she was the responsible rule-following good influence on us.”

Harry laughed, and stood up. “You alright with this morning’s classes? Only I thought I’d call in on Kingsley.”

Ron’s eyebrows went up. “About … ?”

“The knife,” Harry said. “And I thought I’d take a look at the records while I’m there, too. Refresh my memory on who I trained with, or worked with, who went on to …”

“Chose a working environment with an abundance of sea air and stunning views? Good idea.” Ron speared a sausage on his fork and took a bite from the end. “’ule ou’ ‘n’one ‘e o’ ‘eville ‘or’e’d ‘ith.”

Even with years of fluency in ‘Ron Weasley’, it took Harry a moment to work that out. “Oh! Rule out anyone you or Neville worked with?”

Ron nodded, and swallowed. “I’m sure I’ve never seen that particular signature before, and Neville says the same.”

Harry nodded. “I’ll be back by lunch.”

“Good,” Ron said cheerfully. “Because we’ve got Boggarts with the first years this afternoon and you know Aitkins is going to to have read everything in the Library on them in preparation.”

Reflecting that he’d almost rather deal with the Minster for Magic than Colin Aitkins in an enquiring mood, Harry went back to their rooms and Floo’d through to the Ministry’s employee entrance.

“Potter,” he said at the reception desk.

“Yes, I know—” the young wizard behind the desk said.

Harry interrupted him. “To see the Minister, if he can fit me in.”

“Oh.” It was a dilemma, Harry could see that written clearly on the young man’s face. He didn’t need to use Legilimency to read his thoughts. _This is Harry Potter,_ the _Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived_ _… but no-one can just walk in to see the Minister … but this is_ Harry Potter _!_

The receptionist made a hopeful effort to resolve his problem. “You have an appointment?”

Dashing his hopes, Harry shook his head. “I only need five minutes. Can you let his office know I’m on my way up?”

“I — that is, I don’t think —”

Harry took pity on him. “They can tell me ‘no’ when I get there, alright? Just tell them I’m coming. And yes, I know the way.”

They didn’t tell him ‘no’, of course, although he was kept cooling his heels in the Minister’s outer office for half-an-hour before Kingsley Shacklebolt flung open his door.

“Harry!”

Harry stood up, holding out his hand, which Kingsley promptly seized in both his huge ones. “Hello, sir.”

“Come in, come in.” Kingsley ushered him into the inner office and shut the door behind them. “Please tell me you’ve come to say that you’ve broken the Hogwarts Defence Against the Dark Arts jinx and you’re ready to come back to work.” He gestured to a chair. “Sit, please.” 

  Harry sat down. “No such luck, I’m afraid. I was talking to Andy the other day and he said there was a decided up-tick in reports. Is it really that bad?”

“Oh, no, no.” Kingsley waved away the idea. “Neighbours flinging hexes over the fence over whose tree shades whose yard, you know the sort of stuff. Robards wants to make an Azkaban case out of everything that crosses his desk to make himself look good for when he takes a run at my job, and the fresh crop of recruits are straight out of training and filing reports on everything.” He smiled. “So I’d like you back as soon as possible to show the greenhorns the ropes.”

“I’ll do my best,” Harry said. “But actually, I’m here to ask for a favour. I need an item that’s kept in our vaults, for a while. It’s V.E.S ninety seven.” He paused. “Bellatrix Lestrange’s knife.”

Kingsley leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together. “Am I allowed to ask why?”

“I want to get it examined by a freelance curse-breaker,” Harry said, which was true. “He’s very private — a recluse, really — and he only agreed to look at it if I brought it to him. Myself.”

“And would I know this freelance curse-breaker?” Kingsley asked.

“Possibly,” Harry hedged. “But he, you know, doesn’t want his involvement known.”

Kingsley chuckled. “A shy curse-breaker, now I have heard it all!” He took off his hat, ran a hand over his smooth head, and dropped the hat on his desk. “Never stand between a curse-breaker and a camera, that’s one piece of advice I was given when I got this job that was actually useful.”

“He’s, um. An unusual character.”

“And you trust him?” Kingsley’s dark eyes were shrewd. “That’s a powerful artifact, Harry.” 

“I do. And I won’t let it out of my sight.” Harry paused, and thought of contingencies. “Or Ron’s. We’re both on temporary leave, so we’re both still technically Aurors —”

Kingsley nodded. “So it will remain in Ministry custody. Alright. But Harry, if you lose it …”

Harry thought of some curse-breakings he’d seen, and winced. “What if it ends up destroyed?”

“Oh, that’s fine. Her husband’s hardly in a position to complain, is he? Especially since all his property, including anything he might have inherited from his wife, is forfeit. The only other possible claimants are her own family — which I think boils down to Teddy Lupin, who’s unlikely to object.”

Harry grinned. “That simplifies matters.”

“Try not to destroy it, though.” Kingsley reached for a quill and a piece of parchment and scrawled something on it. “If  it can be avoided. Here. Take this to the secure vault and they’ll hand it over.”

Harry took the parchment. “Thanks. I’ll let you get on with, um …” He stood up. “Ministering.”

Kingsley laughed. “That’s something I haven’t heard it called before.” He waited until Harry’s hand was on the doorknob. “Harry. Is there something you should be telling me?”

_Damn_. He turned slowly. “Um, yes. I suppose there is.”

Kingsley sighed. He picked up his hat and settled it back on his head. “Go on, then.”

“I think you should tighten up security at Azkaban.”

The Minister for Magic went very still. “You have specific information?”

“No, not specific. A … suspicion. I’m trying to run it down.”

“Is it Lestrange? Is that why you want the knife?”

Harry shook his head. “That’s not why I want the knife. I don’t know anything about Lestrange. I just … it’s a hunch. A feeling.”

Kingsley ran his hand over his face. “I’ll look into it. And you, Harry, you’ll keep me informed. If your _hunch_ , your _suspicion_ , turns into anything more concrete, I’m your first Floo.”

“Got it, sir,” Harry said, and made his escape.

Stuffing the precious parchment in his pocket, Harry headed next to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

He was hoping to find Andy again, but the older man’s cubicle was empty. Harry sighed. _Nothing for it_. He’d have to go through the personnel files himself.

_First order of business, work out where they actually are_.

He’d fought a Basilisk, dealt with a dragon, and faced down Voldemort more than once. _It_ _’s ridiculous to be intimidated by a file room._

Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door.

_If the left side is verified incidents_ _… and near the door is suspected, not verified … and artifacts are up the back …_

He turned in a slow circle. _Nope. Still no clue where to start._

“Potter! What are you doing here?” Gawain Robards said behind him.

“Hello, sir,” Harry said, as cheerfully and innocently as he could. He glanced over his shoulder, trying for casual and completely unalarmed. “Just looking something up.”

Robards scowled at him. “You can’t be in here, Potter. You’re on leave!”

“I’ll just be a moment …”

“Out!” Robards said, emphasising the word with an overly-dramatic finger stabbed towards the exit. “Just because you’ve got the press wrapped around your little finger, Potter, doesn’t mean you get to ignore the rules in _here_.”

“Perhaps you can help me, sir.” Harry didn’t move towards the exit. “Where exactly _is_ the rule that an Auror on leave can’t have access to the file room?”

Robards narrowed his eyes. “Don’t get smart with me, son. Where exactly are we standing?”

“In the file room?” Harry hazarded.

“Which is?”

_You know, I never really saw his resemblance to Dolores Umbridge until this very moment._ “In the Auror’s office.”

“Which is?” Robards repeated.

Harry sighed. _Oh, bugger it._ “It’s going to be a lot faster if you just tell me what you want me to say, sir. And I know you must be very busy.”

“This is the Department of Magical Law Enforcement!” Robards said.  “ _Law_ enforcement, not the Department of Magical Take-It-Or-Leave-It-Guidelines. Don’t think I don’t know how you and Weasley play fast-and-loose with procedures! You should both be sent back to training, and if you don’t watch your step, you will be!”

“If I’m an Auror who can be sent back to training, then I have a perfect right to be here, sir. Don’t I? And if I _don_ _’t_ have a right to be here, you can’t really discipline me as an Auror, can you?” Harry wrinkled his forehead in confected confusion. “I have got that right, haven’t I, sir?”

“Out, Potter!”

For a moment, Harry really considered flat-out refusing and seeing if Robards would test his strength by trying to evict him by force. _No_.

_I_ _’ll want to work here again, after all._

“Of course,” he said politely, and made his escape.

Robards watched him with narrowed eyes all the way to the lift, so Harry had no opportunity to detour and ask one of his colleagues to do the leg-work for him later. He got in, and had just braced himself for the jerk-and-lurch that would start his trip to the Ministry’s Vault when running footsteps pounded towards the lift and a small figure squeezed through the closing doors.

“Wotcher,” said Bernice Berringer, grinning up at him. The diminutive Auror was a little too tall to be mistaken for a part-goblin, but only a little, and her hair changed colour so often half the office was convinced she was a secret Metamorphmagus. Harry, with a little more experience of the Muggle world than most of them, had long suspected hair dye. The fact that today’s brilliant shade of blue was not only the exact same vivid colour as her eyes, but also showed a quarter-inch of blonde at the roots, confirmed it.

“Hi, Bernie,” Harry said politely. “How are you?”

“Goo—” The word was cut off as the lift began to move and she was thrown against the wall. She chuckled, and righted herself. “Bugger. Always takes me by surprise. Saw you getting a right royal bollocking from Robards.”

Harry shrugged. “Not the first, won’t be the last.”

Bernie poked him in the stomach with her finger. “You want to be careful, Harry-me-lad. He can’t sack you, but he could make your life an endless wasteland of desolation and despair.”

Feeling a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite the foul mood Robards had put him in, Harry raised his eyebrows. “Putting me on permanent night shift when I get back?”

“Worse,” Bernie said darkly. She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Permanent _filing_. So watch your step.”

“I will.” The lift stopped and the doors opened. “See you, Bernie —”

She stepped out with him, grabbed his arm and dragged him into the nearest alcove. This being the entrance to the Ministry Vault, there were plenty to choose from. Being Bernie, she picked one occupied by a large and prickly plant, with serrated leaves at just the right height to completely clear the top of her head and jab Harry in the face. “Speaking of filing … what were you after, in there?”

“Just a quick inquiry.” Bernie was a good Auror, by all accounts, quick with a spell when needed and completely fearless, but Harry had never worked with her himself, and that made it hard for him to know how much he could trust her.

“Bollocks,” Bernie said. “You’ve never even _seen_ the inside of the file room before today as far as I know, and I’m Bernice Berringer. I _know_ things, that’s what I do. So what’s the dealio?” When Harry hesitated, she poked him in the stomach again. “I’m offering to _help_ , you big lummox. To throw myself on the grenade of paperwork for you. To risk death, dismemberment, paper-cuts and eye-crossing, unendurable boredom. Try to at least _look_ grateful.”

“I need a list of Aurors I trained with, or have worked with in the field,” Harry said at last. _Really, it_ _’s not like I have a lot of other options._ “To check against my memory. Only those who didn’t work with Ron Weasley or Neville Longbottom.”

 Bernie fixed him with a bright blue gaze. “You’ve seen a spell,” she said flatly.

_Oh yes, that_ _’s the other thing they say about Bernie. Quick with a spell, completely fearless, and sharp enough to cut herself._ “Yes,” Harry admitted. “And I can’t put my finger on where I’ve seen the same handwriting.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Have we got a rotten apple, then? No, don’t answer that, if I was supposed to know someone official would have told me, right? I don’t want to know. Unless I need to know?”

“You don’t,” Harry assured her.

“Okay. Cool. Copacetic. How will I get the list to you?”

“Just owl it to me,” Harry said. “At Hogwarts.”

“In code?” Bernie asked hopefully.

Harry shook his head. “No need for code. Just the names.”

“I could do a code anyway. I know a really good one. You take a book, see, and you both have the same book, and you pick a page and —”

“No code,” Harry said firmly, visions of spending a week deciphering Bernie’s message rising before his eyes. “Please, Bernie. No code.”

She deflated a bit. “Fine. No code. If my owl is intercepted by the enemy and your secret plans are foiled because he, she or it can read the message, don’t blame me.”

“Unless you blab about what you’re doing and for who, that’s not very likely, is it?” Harry pointed out.

“You never know,” Bernie said ominously. “The walls have ears, and eyes too, sometimes. There are portents, portentous portents.”

“Are there really?”

She grinned up at him, gloom gone in an instant. “No. Haven’t seen a sniff of a portent since You-Know-Who went You-Know-Where. I just like the word. Alright, Mum’s the word, loose lips crash broomsticks, silence is golden, etcetera, etcetera, ad infinitum and so on and so forth.” She pushed him back out of the alcove, earning him another painful swipe from the plant leaves. “Now, shoo, make yourself scarce, scarper, vamoose. We mustn’t be seen together or Ridiculous Robards will know!”

She herself did exactly as she’d advised him to, scampering back into the lift.

Feeling  a little as if he’d been waylaid and attacked by a human version of one of the Hogwarts Library’s temperamental and territorial thesauruses, Harry made his way to the vault’s entrance, presented    Kingsley’s scrawled authorisation, and waited for Bellatrix Lestrange’s cursed knife.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gawain Robards was the Head of the Auror’s Office when Scrimgeour was Minister. I couldn’t find any information on whether he survived in the position after the Second Wizarding War, and his irritating character is entirely non-canonical.


	52. Chapter 52: Colin Aitkins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin overhears something he's not meant to … as well as something he is.

 

 

“Alright, children!” Professor Sprout cried cheerfully. “Today we’re going to be pruning the Snickersnack plants. Has everybody got their gloves?”

“I don’t think this is very safe,” Colin muttered to Mike.

“On a scale of one to ‘Forbidden Forest’?” Mike countered, pulling his dragon-hide gloves from his pocket.

“That’s not the point! I’ve been —”

“Reading up,” Maisie and Mike chorused together.

Colin flushed. “Well, yes,” he said. “I have been reading up. You know why they’re called Snickersnack? Because they —”

“Gloves, Mr Aitkins!” Professor Sprout called. “Let’s see if this class can be the first one in which no students lose any fingers, shall we?”

Colin gulped, and hastily pulled on his gloves.

“Now, Professor Longbottom will demonstrate the correct technique.” Professor Sprout turned and beamed at the tall young professor beside her. “Go ahead, Neville.”

“Pruning a Snickersnack is much easier than you’d think,” Professor Longbottom said, with what Colin felt was far too much enthusiasm. _I imagine everything is much easier than you_ _’d think when you’re nearly seven foot tall and built like a blacksmith._ “The trick is to pacify your Snickersnack before you let it see the shears.” With his right hand held behind his back, he approached the nearest of the small bushes set on the students’ tables.

Which promptly whipped a dozen knife-edged tentacles towards him.

Colin — and every other student in the class — took a large step back from their own Snickersnack plants.

Professor Longbottom seemed completely unfazed. _Well, a bush is hardly as bad as a giant homicidal serpent — even a bush that can cut your hand off._ “Now then, let’s not be having any of that nonsense,” he said to the Snickersnack, his tone soothing. “There’s no need to carry on, is there? You’ve got a nice pot, a lovely sunny position, dragon dung fertiliser twice a month …” As he talked, the slashing tentacles gradually slowed their movement, until the bush was still.  Professor Longbottom reached out slowly and stroked the plant’s leaves. “There now. That’s better, isn’t it? Shall we get rid of that old growth now? I think we will.” In the same soft tone, as if he was still talking to the plant, he said, “The most important thing to remember now is to be fast. You’re looking for any tendrils or leaves that have a dark core, and when you spot them …”

Professor Longbottom grasped one of the Snickersnack’s leaves with his left hand. With a speed and precision that made it clear exactly how he’d managed to behead a striking snake, he whipped his right hand out from behind his back, revealing his shears, and snipped the leaf off at the stalk. He leapt back just as the Snickersnack made a retaliatory swing at him with every one of its razor-sharp appendages.

“Easy,” Professor Longbottom said, as if he hadn’t been mere inches away from earning the nickname ‘Nine-Fingered Neville’. “Now you try. Remember, keep your shears out of sight until the last minute.”

Colin eyed his Snickersnack with trepidation. Around him, his classmates were hesitantly approaching their plants. _Pacify it,_ Colin reminded himself. _Just stay out of tentacle reach until it calms down._

He couldn’t make his feet move.

“Alright there, Aitkins?” Professor Longbottom asked, right behind him — right behind and several feet up.

“Yes!” His voice came out in a humiliating squeak.  Beside him, Mike was only an arm’s length away from his Snickersnack, talking to it. On Mike’s other side, Maisie appeared to be trying to scold her plant into submission. Looking around the greenhouse, Colin realised he was the only student who hadn’t yet worked up the courage to tackle the task. _Just step forward._ His right hand, clutching the shears, was so sweaty he wouldn’t have been surprised if the perspiration had soaked through the dragon-hide glove.

_Just step forward._

“The thing about being brave,” Professor Longbottom said, his voice quiet and conversational, “is that it’s not really about not being scared. It’s about doing the thing that scares you, anyway.”

Colin turned and looked up at him. _As if_ you _know anything about being scared._

The thought must have shown on his face, because Professor Longbottom laughed. “Being afraid of something dangerous is only sensible, isn’t it? I was scared half to death all the times I did those things you’ve heard of. Every one else was, too.”

“Then how did you do them?”

“When you want something more than you want to be safe, the fear doesn’t matter so much.” Professor Longbottom clapped Colin on the shoulder. “And a few deep breaths don’t hurt, either.”

Colin nodded. He took the deepest breath he could, and then another. _Want something more than to be safe._ What did he want, more than not having the Snickersnack take off every one of his fingers? To not be the biggest coward in the class, but that didn’t help, because he _was_ the biggest coward in the class, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” Professor Longbottom said. “The Snickersnack? Can’t get through dragon hide. You could stick your hands straight in there and get nothing worse than a tickling.”

Colin stared at him. “Then why … I mean, Professor Sprout _said_ …”

Professor Longbottom winked at him. “Best to start you out on the right foot. You’ll be dealing with things that really _could_ hurt you, later on, things like Devil’s Snare and the Venomous Tentacula. So just treat this as practice, alright?”

Despite the fact that he’d really, _really_ , rather practice in a way that involved books and the Library and maybe a small potted fern, Colin had no choice but to nod.

_Want something more than to be safe_.

Well, he’d wanted to be safe when Maisie had taken them all traipsing off to the Forbidden Forest in the middle of the night, hadn’t he? _And I went anyway. Because I was more scared of saying no to Maisie than of vampires and werewolves and centaurs._

_And what happens when Maisie asks me to get her a piece of Venomous Tentacula or something, and I don_ _’t know what to do?_

Colin swallowed hard, and managed to shuffle a step closer to the Snickersnack. “Nice plant,” he said, wishing his voice didn’t quaver quite so much. “Good plant. Um, hello. I’m Colin.”

“Good lad,” Professor Longbottom said encouragingly. “It doesn’t matter what you say, it’s the tone of your voice.”   

Colin did his best to sound calm and soothing as he edged closed to the knife-like tentacles. “I’m not going to hurt you or anything. Um, well, I don’t know if that’s true. But it’s for the best.” The lashing tendrils didn’t seem to be slowing down at all. “A little pruning will get you in tip-top shape for the winter.  You don’t want to end up with all woody dead growth, do you?”

“That’s it, Aitkins. You carry on.” Professor Longbottom moved away.

“Nice plant. Good plant. Um …”

Mike bumped into him, making Colin yelp, which made the Snickersnack writhe furiously.

“Thanks very much,” Colin said.

“It wasn’t me,” Mike muttered. “Maisie jabbed me in the ribs.” He turned to give Maisie a dark look.

“Because I wanted you to look at that,” Maisie said, completely unperturbed by Mike’s scowl. She jerked her chin towards the back of the greenhouse.

Colin tried to turn around in a completely casual and entirely natural manner, which was difficult when there was an aggravated plant just in front of him trying to cut off pieces he’d really rather keep. All he saw was Professor Longbottom talking to Professor Granger. “So?”

“So what’s she doing here?”

“Getting ingredients for potions, probably,” Colin said.

“Quick, call the _Prophet_ ,” Mike said. “Terrifying Truth: Teachers Talk. In shocking scenes today, your correspondent observed two Professors of Hogwarts School having a conversation. Tomorrow’s edition: Students Scandalously Study.” 

“They’re not talking, they’re _whispering_ ,” Maisie said. “Colin, go and eavesdrop.”

“Why me?”

“Because you can say you need more help with your Snickersnack from Professor Longbottom if they notice you,” Maisie said.

“I don’t think he should,” Mike said. “Maybe they’re just having a private conversation. I mean, they are friends, right, as well as teachers? All that fighting You-Know-Who and whatever?”

“You don’t interrupt someone teaching a class and whisper to them in corners because you want to tell them about a book you’ve read or whatever, do you?” Maisie said. “Go on, Colin. I’ll prune your Snickersnack for you if you do it.”

Colin eyed the writhing, living blades. “Alright. But do it right. Don’t make me look like a prat in front of Professor Longbottom.”

Leaving Maisie to deal with his plant, Colin wandered towards the end of the greenhouse where Professor Longbottom and Professor Granger were — yes, definitely whispering, Maisie had been a hundred percent right about that. He eyed the benches nearby. Watering cans, spare gloves … extra shears. Quickly, he slipped his own pair onto the nearest bench as he passed. _Sorry, Professor, I dropped my shears and just wanted another pair_ _…_

He took his time choosing another pair of shears from among a pile of dozens, testing the weight and then the edge of the blades of each one, drifting closer and closer to the two professors as he did so until he could pick up what they were saying.

“… Burbage, and it ties in with what Aberforth said, doesn’t it?” Professor Longbottom said.

“Yes, but we already checked, and it didn’t go anywhere.” Professor Granger sounded cross, even in a whisper.  

“I don’t think Aberforth would just —”

“How would he know? I mean, yes, he’s trying to help, but — ” She stopped with an odd grunt, and then went on in a slightly louder voice. “Oh. Yes. Well, Neville, thank you for your help.”

“Don’t mention it,” Professor Longbottom said heartily. “We can’t have it falling into the wrong hands. I’ll round up Harry and Ron and we’ll search the castle from top to bottom.” 

“Pay special attention to the fifth floor,” Professor Granger said. “That’s where the rumours say it’s hidden.”

“Will do.”

“Thanks, Neville. It’s vitally important we find the Quidditch Key.”

Professor Granger left, and Colin seized the first set of shears his hand fell on and scurried back to Maisie and Mike.

“Well?” Maisie demanded.

“Not here!” Colin hissed at her. “Later!”

“Colin —”

“I really mean it!” he said fiercely. “Later, somewhere private!”

_Later_ turned out to be while everyone else was eating dinner, Colin’s detention with Professor Granger having consumed the free time students usually enjoyed before the evening meal. _Somewhere private_ was the alcove where they’d concealed the Boggart, which Maisie dragged Colin into as he passed on his way back upstairs from the Potions classroom.

“Here?” he said when she let go of his arm. “Really? _Here?_ ”

“It’s perfect,” she said. “Everyone will be in the Great Hall, and neither the ghosts nor Filch spend much time down here, because of the Bloody Baron.”

“If the ghosts are scared of him, shouldn’t _we_ be?” Mike said.

“He’s a ghost. All he can do is shout and clank at you and make a cold spot. Now. Colin. _What_ did you hear?”

“There’s a key, a magic key I think. It’s somewhere in the school — the fifth floor, Professor Granger said. She and Professor Longbottom and Professor Potter and Professor Weasley are all trying to find it.”

“Gosh,” Mike said. “That must be why they’re all here, don’t you think? I mean, and Madam Lovegood and Madam Weasley. All the heroes from the war — that can’t be a coincidence.”

“What if we found it?” Colin said. “I mean, if _we_ found it, when Harry Potter and his friends couldn’t …” He trailed off, enraptured by the vision his words conjured: himself, key clutched firmly in his hand, modestly deflecting the compliments of Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom as they declared that he was a born Auror, bound to be even better than the famous Mad-eye Moody … Maisie kicked him in the calf and the dream evaporated. “Ow.”

“We’ve got enough on our plates,” Maisie said. “We can’t go running off after some strange key when we still have to finish the handle polish.”

Mike narrowed his eyes. “It’s not all about you and what _you_ want. I don’t give two knuts about Quidditch and if I did, I certainly wouldn’t be cheering for Hufflepuff.”

“It’s not about cheering for Hufflepuff, Mike, it’s about there being one of _us_ , a first year, on a team. _Any_ team. If you were a brilliant Seeker or Chaser, I’d give the infusion to you in a red-hot minute.”

“You wouldn’t though,” Mike said. “You’d want to win.”

“I don’t care about winning!” Maisie said. “I just want to be on the team.”

“It’s called the Quidditch Key,” Colin said, and silenced them both. “I don’t know why. But Professor Granger was really worried someone would find it. She said it was ‘vitally important’ to find it.”

Mike frowned. “The Quidditch Key? There’s nothing to unlock in Quidditch. Is there?”

“It won’t be an actual _key_ , will it?” Maisie said impatiently. “That will be meta-whatsit. It just means it’s the key to Quidditch.” She frowned, pulling on her lower lip. “It could be something like a book with great tactics, for example.”

“I think it must be magic, though,” Colin said. “Otherwise Professor Granger wouldn’t be worried about it.”

“Mike, can you ask her, in our next class? Sort of vaguely?”

Mike rolled his eyes. “No, because she’ll want to know how I know to ask, won’t she?”

“We need to know what it is, though, to know whether we should look for it,” Maisie pointed out. “How else are we going to know, if you don’t ask?”

“Easy,” Colin said. “If it’s powerful magic, there’ll be something in the Library, won’t —”

Maisie clapped her hand over his mouth and dragged him deeper into the shadows. “Shhh!” About to protest, Colin heard what she had, and fell silent: footsteps were coming down the nearest staircase.

“I thought you said everyone would be in the Great Hall!” Mike hissed at her.

“Shut. Up!” Maisie hissed back.

“Are you sure about this, Hermione?” Professor Potter’s voice said, echoing slightly as he reached the bottom of the spiral staircase.

“Absolutely,” Professor Granger said. “I don’t want one atom of that loathsome woman attached to me for a second longer than it has to be.”

“What’s an atom?” Professor Weasley asked.

“Muggle word for a skerrick.” Professor Potter sounded amused.

And very much closer. _They_ _’re going to come this way. They’re going to come this way, and two of them are the best Aurors in the country, and the other one is Professor Granger who can see out of the back of her head, and they’re going to see us, and —_

_No_. The footsteps were getting softer. Colin wriggled free of Maisie’s restraining hand and crouched down, peering around the corner of the alcove. Yes, the three teachers were heading away down the hallway, Professor Potter seemingly carrying something in front of him, from the way his arms were bent.

He frowned. _That_ _’s odd_. As far as he knew — which was pretty far, given how many times he’d read _Hogwarts: A History_ — there wasn’t anything down that end of the dungeon except disused storerooms.

As he watched, the three stopped in front of the door of one of them.

_No._ It was a door that Colin had _assumed_ led to one of those disused storerooms, but Professor Potter knocked on it as if it were, instead, someone’s front door. Knocked, and waited. Colin couldn’t hear what the three were saying to each other, but they were definitely waiting for —

The door opened. The three professors went inside. The door closed behind them.

Colin turned. “They’re gone. Let’s get out of here before they come back.” 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Snickersnack bush is entirely my own invention


	53. Chapter 53: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione faces a trial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: canon-typical violence

 

 

As confident as she’d been when Harry had asked her if she didn’t want to wait a day or two for Professor Snape’s attempt to remove the curse, Hermione felt her courage begin to fail her as they waited for Snape to open the door for them. She couldn’t help stealing a glance at the flat, black box that Harry carried in both hands. It didn’t look big enough to be as heavy as he seemed to find it, but the runes of containment engraved on every surface hinted at the power it was designed to contain.

She shivered.

Ron put an arm around her shoulders. “Alright, Hermione?”

“Fine. A goose walked over my grave, that’s all.”

“A … _what?_ ”

His comically confused expression made Hermione smile. “It’s just a Muggle saying.”

“A mental one. I mean, how can you have a grave if you’re alive? And why a goose? What’s frightening about a goose? A vampire walking over your grave, fine, that’s scary, except to have a grave you’d be dead and beyond scaring — but a goose? That’s mad.” 

The door opened. Hermione took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold. _No backing out now_. It wasn’t strictly true, of course — she could turn tail and run at any point until Professor Snape actually began to remove the curse — but she was definitely past the point at which she could bolt without it being absolutely clear her nerve had broken.

_And I can just imagine what Severus Snape would say about_ _‘Gryffindor courage’ if I do that_.

She straightened her shoulders and stepped into Snape’s sitting room.

Although he must have been expecting them, Snape had made no effort in the direction of hospitality. _Or common courtesy_. There was still only the one chair, although it was in the centre of the room and not in front of the fire. Hermione had half-expected to find the rugs pushed back and the stone flags chalked with arcane patterns and ancient runes, but they lay undisturbed. The fire in the hearth was banked low, the desk at the other end of the room held neat piles of parchment, a few books, a half-dozen scrolls. Snape stood behind it, his attention on a scroll in his hand.

“Even a swan would make more sense, they can be vicious,” Ron said as he followed her.

“Geese can be nasty,” Harry pointed out, bringing up the rear with his box. “Especially in a group.”

“Yes, but she didn’t say ‘a flock of rampaging hungry _geese_ walked over my grave’, did she?”

“As … _fascinating_ as this is,” Snape said, setting the scroll down, “perhaps now is the time to turn your attention to the task at hand, Weasley?”

“Absolutely, Snape,” Ron said with just the slightest hint of emphasis. “Since we’re being informal.”

“Ron …” Hermione murmured, as Snape’s eyes narrowed.

“If _Professor Granger_ would remove her robe and roll up her sleeve, and _Professor Potter_ would open the Ministry box I see he carries, then we can begin.” The politeness in Snape’s tone shaded past icy and all the way into lethal.

“And what will Professor Weasley do?” Ron asked.

“Wait. _Quietly._ ”

“Good luck with that,” Harry said under his breath as he set the engraved box down on Snape’s desk.

Hermione shrugged out of her robes and folded them neatly. She set them on the floor beside the chair and then, gritting her teeth, rolled up her sleeve to the elbow.

She expected some sort of exclamation from Harry, or at least Ron, at the sight of the scar of her arm, the silvery _mudblood_ as clear as it had been in their time at Shell Cottage, but Harry was looking down at the box, fiddling with the catches, and Ron said nothing at all.

“Sit down, Professor Granger,” Snape said. “ _Professor_ Weasley, Granger will need to be still while I undertake this. It may be difficult for her. You will ensure it.”

“Hold the patient down, got it,” Ron said. He grinned down at Hermione as she settled gingerly into the armchair. “Do you want a bit of wood to bite on, or something?” 

“Have you got one handy?” Hermione asked.

His grin grew wider, and he reached into his pocket. “Here’s one I prepared earlier …”

“Ron Weasley!” Hermione said, laughing. “How can you know about Muggle cooking shows and not about a goose walking over someone’s grave?”

“It’s a gift,” he said blithely. “So you don’t want something to bite on?”

“Just hold my hand,” Hermione said. She thought she was joking until the words left her lips, and then she realised she was deadly serious.

“Hold hand of patient, roger.” Ron knelt down beside the chair and took her hand in both his. “Like this?”

Hermione felt her throat get hot and swollen. “Perfect,” she managed to say. “Professor Snape, is this going to hurt?”

“Yes,” he said. Hermione wasn’t sure whether to be irritated at his lack of reassurance or grateful for his honesty. She thought about asking him if she really needed to be awake for him to work, or if a quick dose of Dreamless Sleep might be called for. _No_. _If it was going to be that bad, he_ _’d suggest it._ Severus Snape might be many things, most of them unpleasant, but she really couldn’t imagine him as inefficient, and a screaming subject interrupting his concentration while he worked would definitely be that. 

Snape and Harry took what seemed like an unreasonably long time to examine the contents of the box, both with wands in hand. Finally Harry straightened.

“So that’s why …” he said.

Snape nodded slightly. “A very subtle and ancient piece of magic.”

Ron cleared his throat. “There’s no need to sound so admiring.”

Snape ignored him. “Potter, you will hold the knife where I can see it as I work.”

“Right.” Harry hesitated. “In the box? Or …”

“In the box will be sufficient.”

“Good.” Harry sounded relieved. He picked up the box and carried it carefully over to the chair. Hermione looked away as he knelt down beside her. _I know what that knife looks like_.

“Weasley?” Snape said. “If you’re quite ready?”

“Ready, Hermione?” Ron asked, and when she nodded, he put one hand on her forearm, just above the scar, and the other around her shoulders.  “You just look at me, alright? I’m right here, and I’m going to be right here the whole time.”

Hermione nodded. She reached up her free hand and took a firm hold of the front of his robe. “I’m ready,” she said quietly, and braced herself. From the corner of her eye, she saw Snape raise his wand.

It wasn’t the worst pain she’d ever felt — Hermione was fairly sure that, having been through the Cruciatus curse, nothing ever again would be the worst pain she’d ever felt — but it was a lot worse than she’d allowed herself to expect. After the first pass of Snape’s wand over her scar, even with her gaze fixed on Ron’s face she could see a thin trickle of crimson blood start oozing from the _m_ with her peripheral vision. She closed her eyes and buried her face in Ron’s chest.

The cuts that had left her with that scar had been agony, made worse by nerves still sparking and jumping with the aftermath of Cruciatus. _This_ , though, slow and deliberate, was almost worse. Hermione could feel her skin part, a fraction of an inch at a time. She wanted to scream at Snape to get on with it, but she ground her teeth together and forced herself to hold still. _Why oh why didn_ _’t I insist on taking Dreamless Sleep before he started?_

_Because you trusted him, you idiot. Because you trusted him, and because you wanted to prove how brave and Gryffindor you are, you fool, you stupid, stupid mudblood_ _…_

“Professor,” she managed to say, in a voice that was thicker and shakier than she’d have liked. “I think it’s fighting back.”

Snape didn’t answer her. Of course he wouldn’t — why would he lower himself to speak to — _No. No. He didn_ _’t answer because he can’t interrupt what he’s doing. That’s all. That’s all._

“You’re doing fantastically well,” Ron said, quietly. “It’s nearly done, now. It’s nearly finished.”

As if the traces of Bellatrix’s malice left beneath her skin heard him, Hermione felt her skin crawl with sudden revulsion. _Stop. Stop. I can_ _’t — I can’t — I’m not strong enough, I’ve never been strong enough — stop, leave it, stop —_ A wave of nausea swept over her, too sudden for her to fight, and she retched helplessly, vomiting partly on herself and partly on the chair but mostly on Ron.

“Hang on, Hermione,” he said. His grip on her arm was very hard, now, painfully so, as if he was leaning more and more of his weight on that hand. Hermione couldn’t shift it no matter how hard she struggled and writhed.

“Stop!” she screamed. “Stop, stop, stop it! Let me go!”

Snape didn’t stop, and Ron didn’t let her go, even when she let go of his robe and began to beat him with her clenched fist. Hermione cursed them, screamed at them, begged Harry to help her —

They all ignored her. _Of course they_ _’re ignoring me. I’m just a —_

“Get out of my head!” she howled. “You’re dead, you crazy sadistic _bitch!_ You’re dead, and you lost, and you can get the _fuck_ out of my head!”

“One more,” Ron said. “Can you hear me, Hermione? There’s just one more to go.”

It was the worst of all of it, that final letter. Snape seemed to be working even more slowly, _as if he_ wants _to draw it out, to make me suffer —_

That wasn’t true, she _knew_ it wasn’t true, she _knew_ he was helping her, Harry and Ron were helping her, they _cared_ about her. And Snape, if he didn’t exactly care, certainly didn’t wish her ill. Hermione clenched her teeth until her jaw ached and told herself, over and over, the things that she knew to be true while the curse screamed along her nerves and told her she was worthless, useless, weak, unlovable —

Suddenly, it was over. Her arm still hurt, but it was a normal stinging pain, as if Crookshanks had raked her with his claws. The rest of her body ached with exhaustion, muscles fluttering with fatigue, as if she’d just run a marathon, and for the first time Hermione realised she was drenched in sweat. She felt lightheaded, as if she hadn’t eaten all day, and yet not unwell. It was rather as if she’d just that moment recovered from a bad ‘flu, when the relief of the fever breaking was so great it overwhelmed any lingering weakness. 

“It’s done,” Ron said. He let go of her arm and hugged her. Hermione raised her head from his chest and lifted her arm so she could see it. The word _mudblood_ was no longer a scar, but a fresh wound, blood trickling from the letters.

“Dittany,” Snape said. He was kneeling by the armchair, wand still in his hand but resting on the thick rug. He was even paler than usual, and his lank hair was stuck to his face with sweat. He fumbled in his pocket, all his usual grace and precision gone. “Potter —”

“Got it.” Harry, too, was pale. He closed the box and carefully set it down well away from all of them. He reached into Snape’s pocket and drew out a small bottle. Uncorking it, he sprinkled the contents over Hermione’s arm.

The pain faded, and the skin mended itself before her eyes. In seconds, the word was a barely visible pink.

“In a week or so, it will be gone,” Snape said.

Ron released Hermione with one arm and produced his wand. A moment later, the smell of sick disappeared.

“Sorry about that,” she said.

He grinned down at her, freckles standing out more vividly than usual. “What’s a little vomit between friends? How are you feeling?”

“Very tired,” she said. She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Professor Snape? Are you alright?”

“Perfectly,” he said coldly, despite looking like a man who’d just gone three rounds with a  Lethifold. He still hadn’t moved from his position, kneeling by the chair, nor had he tucked away his wand. “Potter, the malice in that knife has been weakened, but it still exists. I suggest you return it to the Ministry at your earliest convenience.”

“It still exists?” Hermione asked. She bit her lip. “So you didn’t … it didn’t entirely …?”

Snape raised an eyebrow, but only by a fraction. “If you are struggling against your Gryffindor tendencies to find a tactful way to ask me if I _failed_ , Granger, set your mind at rest.”

“You’re officially de-cursed, Hermione,” Harry said. He patted her arm. Hermione flinched as his fingers covered the letters etched in pink on her skin, and then realised she felt nothing at all — no tingle of pain, no ache, just the warm and reassuring touch of a friend. “I’m going to Floo in to the Ministry and get the knife back in the vault tonight.”

“It’s that bad?” Ron said. “I wasn’t really watching.”

Harry’s mouth set in a grim line. “If I’d known what it’s really like, I don’t know if I’d have had the guts to take it out of the vault in the first place.”

“Oh, do spare me your false modesty,” Snape said wearily. He used the arm of the chair to lever himself to his feet, and for a moment he looked so unsteady that Hermione half-braced herself for him to fall into her lap. Then he steadied himself, and straightened. “You and Weasley would have staged the first successful robbery of the Ministry vault to help Granger, and everyone in this room knows it.”

“Except every successful break-in to magically protected vaults needs a Hermione to succeed,” Ron said.

Hermione smiled sleepily. “You make it sound like I come in packs of four.”

Ron’s arm tightened around her shoulders. “If you came in packs of four, old Foldysnort would have been done for five years earlier.”

 “As charming as all this is,” Snape said acidly, “perhaps you might be induced to take the self-congratulations elsewhere before Professor Granger is not the only person moved to nausea this evening?”

“I think he’s telling us to bugger off, Hermione,” Ron said. “Can you get up, or will I Mobilicorpus you back to your rooms?”

“Bouncing me off every wall on the way? No thanks.”

He grinned at her. “Unfair, I’m heaps better with my aim these days.”

 “Wouldn’t be hard.” With Ron’s help, Hermione got to her feet. Snape had turned away from them and was staring into the banked fire, one hand on the mantelpiece and the other still holding his wand. “Professor?”

The only acknowledgement he gave her was the slightest turn of his head, showing her his beaky profile, eyes hooded.

“Thank you,” Hermione said. “For … everything. Thank you.”

Snape’s chin dipped slightly, one bare nod, before he turned to stare into the fire again.

“Come on,” Ron said, slipping an arm around her waist. “Let’s get you lying down.” 

 

 


	54. Chapter 54: Colin Aitkins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the best-laid plans of several people go astray …

“Do you think the Quidditch Key is really in the dungeons?” Maisie whispered to Colin as they waited for Potions class to start.

“Could be,” Colin said.

Mike frowned at the two of them. “Because?”

“Because, Professor Granger said that Professors Potter and Weasley were looking for it too. And it was all three of them, last night,” Colin pointed out. “And Professor Potter was carrying something. What if it was the Key? What if they found it and hid it down there? Maybe Professor Longbottom was waiting for them, and he was the one who let them in! I’ve looked all through the Quidditch section in the Library, and —”

He fell silent as the door banged open hard enough to bounce back against the frame, and Professor Granger swept into the Potions classroom. Her robe billowing behind her, she strode up to her desk and turned sharply.

“I have limited expectations that any of you will succeed at today’s task,” she said, without her usual smile. “However … I invite you to surprise me. Turn to page seventy-four.”

Colin flipped through his textbook. He’d almost reached the right place when Maisie elbowed him sharply in the ribs and the pages fanned through his fingers.

“Oi!” he hissed at her.

“It’s not about the book!” she hissed back. “The class, it’s not about —”

“Miss Wilkins,” Professor Granger said silkily. She folded her arms with a flick of her wrists to shake the sleeves of her robe back. “Is there something you wish to share with the class?”

“Not at present,” Maisie said.

“Oh, must we await your pearls of wisdom?” Professor Granger asked. “Five points from Hufflepuff, and you, Miss Wilkins, can spend the rest of the class tidying the storage room. The rest of you, _page seventy-four._ ” Her voice cracked like a whip, and around the room, students frantically leafed through their textbooks. Out of the corner of his eye, Colin saw Maisie glare at Professor Granger, before she went into the storeroom.

_Five points just for talking? Professor Granger must be in a_ terrible _mood._ Colin found the page. _Seven ways to brew Cinderjuice._

Beside him, Mike raised his hand. “Professor Granger? Professor Granger, we haven’t studied Ash Muddler Potion yet.”

Professor Granger took a slow step towards Mike — and Colin — and then another. It was strangely menacing. “ _And_ , Mr Rowland?”

“It’s the foundational potion for Cinderjuice. So we should —”

Professor Granger was right in front of Mike’s bench now. Resting her hands on it, she leaned forward. “Should we, Mr Rowland?” she asked, her voice soft and venomous. “Perhaps you would like to teach this class?”

Mike shook his head. “No, Professor, I just meant —”

“Ten points from Ravenclaw,” Professor Granger snapped. As Mike, and the rest of the Ravenclaw students, gasped in shock, she whirled in a flourish of robes and stalked back to the front of the classroom. “Any … other … _questions_?”

“No, Professor,” voices around the room chorused.

“How refreshing,” Professor Granger said coldly. “Who can tell me the uses of Cinderjuice?”

Colin raised his hand.

“Anyone? No? Cinderjuice renders the drinker fire-resistant for a short period of time. How long a period of time depends entirely on the skill of the brewer.” Her gaze raked across the classroom, and her eyes narrowed. “For example, Cinderjuice brewed by anyone in _this_ class would protect a witch or wizard from the heat of a candle-flame for as long as … oh, let’s say three or four seconds. Cinderjuice brewed by a _competent_ practitioner of the art of potions would enable anyone who drank it to walk through dragon-flame unharmed.” Her gaze settled on Colin, whose hand was still up. “Yes, Aitkins?”

“Please, Professor, I just wondered — how do you tell how effective your Cinderjuice potion is?”

“Quite simply, Aitkins,” Professor Granger sneered. “At the end of the class, you will all _drink_ your potion and place your hand over a lit candle.”

Colin gulped. _She_ _’s joking … right? Professor Granger would never let us be hurt in class. Wouldn’t she?_ Today, he was suddenly not so sure of that. 

Professor Granger strode towards him with startling speed. “One day, Aitkins, if you learn enough in my class to pass your N.E.W.Ts — which I seriously doubt — witches and wizards around Great Britain may entrust their very lives to your potions. Your lack of confidence in your own abilities … while _undoubtedly_ warranted … does not bode well for them.”

Colin looked down at his textbook, the words swimming at little. He blinked hard to clear his vision. “No, Professor.”

“Perhaps you might be more comfortable in the storeroom with Wilkins?”

The thought of holding his hand over a flame, with nothing but his own potion to protect him from the heat, made Colin’s stomach twist. _The thing about being brave is that it_ _’s not really about not being scared. It’s about doing the thing that scares you, anyway._ That’s what Professor Longbottom had said. _Which means that to be brave I have to_ try _to brew Cinderjuice._

But Professor Longbottom was a Gryffindor. _And I_ _’m just a Hufflepuff. And Hufflepuffs are sensible, and the sensible thing would be to avoid getting burned. Wouldn’t it?_

He’d hesitated too long. Professor Granger gave a disdainful sniff. “Very well. Carry on.”

Colin stared at page seventy four, trying to make sense of it, as Professor Granger stalked back to the front of the classroom. _In an  odd-numbered year, begin at step four._ None of the steps were numbered, however. _Is step four the fourth paragraph or the fourth sentence?_

“Psst!” Maisie’s voice was unmistakable. “Pssst! Colin! Mike!”

He glanced over his shoulder to see her leaning out of the storeroom door. “Shut up! You’ll get me in trouble!” he hissed.

“It’s not her!” Maisie whispered fiercely.

Colin frowned. “ _Who_ isn’t her?”

“ _You_ might not care about getting singed but _I_ _’d_ like to concentrate,” Mike muttered.

“I’m serious!” Maisie leaned further out of the doorway, peering at the front of the classroom. “Look at her! Properly!”

Doing anything at all that would catch Professor Granger’s attention when she was in the sort of mood she was today seemed to be the height of idiocy to Colin, but he raised his head enough to peep over the top of his textbook. Professor Granger was pacing slowly from one side of the classroom to the other, her robe billowing behind her when she walked and swirling dramatically around her when she turned. Although she didn’t seem to be paying particular attention to the students, when one pushed a jar of ingredients incautiously close to the edge of the desk, Professor Granger sent it back to safety with a wave of her hand and a scowl.

_A wave of her hand_ _… golly, that’s wandless magic! And silent! Wordless wandless magic, that’s rarer than a Crumple-Horned Snorkack!_

“See?”

Colin jumped. While he’d been watching Professor Granger, Maisie had scurried across from the storeroom and was crouching beside him.

She poked him in the ribs. “Our first class! Remember?”

  _Our first class_ _…_

_“Impostor!” Maisie cries._

_“You are!” the spitting image of Maisie standing in the doorway protests. “You’ve stolen my face!”_

Colin eyed Professor Granger, who was now leaning against her desk with her arms folded, eyeing the class sourly. _Has she ever folded her arms before?_ He tried to ignore what she looked like. _She took points from Mike for asking a question_ _… she’s never been mean to me before … Professor Granger always looks like she’s about to trip over her robe when she turns around, except today …_

“Alright,” he whispered down to Maisie. “It’s Polyjuice.”

“Yes, but _who_ is it? It can’t be Madam Weasley again, not actually teaching Potions.”

“You don’t know that,” Mike said. “For all you know, she was an absolute genius at Potions and just preferred to play Quidditch.”

“Well, Madam Weasley doesn’t _stalk_ like that, does she?” Maisie pointed out. “And where’s the _real_ Professor Granger, if someone’s stolen her face?”

“Maisie, for all we know, she _asked_ them too,” Mike said exasperatedly. “I mean, this is _Hogwarts_. People can’t just walk in here and steal teacher’s identities.”

‘You don’t _know_ that they couldn’t. It could be —”

“Miss Wilkins.” They’d been too engrossed in their conversation to notice Professor Granger approaching, and now she stood directly in front of them. “Given your return to your desk, I can only presume that if I were to enter the storeroom, I would find it in perfect order? And Mr Rowland, Mr Aitkins, your Cinderjuice preparation is complete?”

“No, Professor,” Colin whispered as Maisie slowly straightened up from her crouch.

“Then may I ask what is so very important that it supersedes following my instructions?”

“Nothing,” Maisie said. “So you’d better send us to Professor Sprout and Professor Flitwick, for detention, don’t you think?”

Professor Granger’s eyes narrowed. “And I will. _After_ you complete the task assigned. Storeroom, Wilkins. _Now_.”

Maisie stuck out her chin. “No.”

Mike gasped, and Colin tried to make himself as small as possible on his stool.

“I do beg your pardon,” Professor Granger said softly. “I thought I heard you _refuse_ to obey me.”

“You’re not Professor Granger, so you can’t tell me what to do,” Maisie said, to a chorus of more gasps around the classroom. “You don’t talk like her, you don’t walk like her, and you don’t teach like her. You’ve Polyjuiced yourself to look like her, or used some other sort of magic maybe, but you aren’t her.” Her mouth set in a firm line. “And you’d better tell us what you’ve done with her, if you know what’s good for you.”

Professor Granger leaned forward, until her face was less than a foot from Maisie’s. “Do you mean to tell me, Wilkins, that you are under the impression that I am an impostor powerful enough to incapacitate a Professor of Hogwarts?”

Colin gulped. _Put like that, Maisie probably shouldn_ _’t have said anything …_ On the other side of Maisie, Mike was easing his wand from his sleeve, face white.

Professor Granger narrowed her eyes. “And what, precisely, do you —”

“ _Protego!_ ” Mike yelled suddenly.

Professor Granger took a step back, her wand suddenly in her hand — a simple black wand that Colin had never seen before. That absolutely clinched it: Maisie was right.

“Come on!” Maisie grabbed Colin’s arm and dragged him off his stool. She shoved him towards the door. “Run, idiot!”

Professor Granger flicked her wand, and the door slammed shut as the three of them reached it.

“ _Alohomora_!” Mike gasped and it flew open again.

They fled through it. “Up!” Maisie said. “Find Professor Potter!”

Colin glanced back over his shoulder as they pelted down the corridor, convinced he was going to see the impostor closing on them, wand in her hand and murder in her heart. He stumbled over the bottom step of the staircase as Maisie hauled him into it, found his feet and, heart pounding, raced upwards. _One turn, two, three —_

Maisie rounded the last corner and ran straight into Professor Granger.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think? Did you spot the substitution before the students? Thank you to all of you who’ve read this far, and thank you for all the feedback, I love hearing from readers!


	55. Chapter 55: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione has a mess to clean up, students to reassure, and colleagues to scold.

_Earlier that morning_ _…_

 

“Are you sure about this?” Harry’s voice was so quiet Hermione had to strain to hear it.

“I believe my confidence that I can teach a first-year potions class is not entirely unwarranted, Potter.” That was, unmistakably, Snape. “Granger needs to rest.”

“As Hermione, though?” Harry sounded doubtful.

 _Teach as me?_ Hermione struggled to climb up from the well of sleep to tell them what a mental idea that was, but exhaustion held her fast.

“Why would they suspect?”

 _Because I showed them Polyjuice on their first day, you dunderhead. Memorably, if I say so myself._ She managed to open her eyes.

Appallingly, the sun streaming through the window showed it was already midmorning. She scrambled out of bed. _I was dreaming, that_ _’s all … surely? A mad dream about Snape and Polyjuice._

_Between them, they_ _’d have enough sense to think of Harry popping down to the class, saying I was delayed and the students had an unexpected free period as a result._

_Wouldn_ _’t they?_

She showered and dressed in record speed, flung her teaching robe around her shoulders and headed for the dungeons at a brisk walk that was only _just_ not an outright run. She had almost reached the staircase when the small and solid figure of Maisie Wilkins bolted out of it and bowled her over.

Hermione landed on her back on the floor, Maisie on top of her. “Help!” Maisie gasped.

“In the classroom —” Michael Rowland panted, appearing behind her.

Colin Aitkins completed the trio. “Stealing the Key!”

 _So,_ not _enough sense, then._ “My teaching assistant,” Hermione said briskly. “Who has rather an odd sense of humour, sometimes. Wilkins, do get off me.”

Maisie scrambled up. “But —”

Over Colin’s shoulder, Hermione had the disconcerting sight of seeing herself, wand in hand and most un-Hermione expression on her face, whip into view around the spiral of the staircase and stop dead. _Snape_. She glared at him, and miraculously, he seemed to take the hint, moving noiselessly backwards until he was out of sight.

She gave him a slow count of three and then turned to the children. “Come on, you lot, back to the classroom, and tell me what happened on the way.”

The story tumbled out of them, mostly with them all talking at once, but Hermione managed to get the gist by the time they reached the classroom door.

“Well done on the charms, Mr Rowland, and for keeping your head. Five points to Ravenclaw. Badly done on a complete lack of foresight, Miss Wilkins. If you’re ever in a position where you really _do_ spot a powerful witch or wizard bent on doing harm in disguise, it’s generally best not to let on to them you’ve rumbled them.  Five points _from_ Hufflepuff. And for your information, Hogwarts is very well protected. No-one who means you harm could possibly get in.” _Unless invited, the way Quirrell was, and Barty Crouch Junior, and_ _… best not to mention any of that to the students, though._   “Now, in you go.”

Snape had wisely not returned to the classroom. Hermione spent a busy fifteen minutes reassuring her students, cleaning up several disastrous attempts to brew Cinderjuice potion — _what was he_ thinking _?_ — and telling several outright lies about the identity of her teaching assistant.

“As I said he’s disfigured,” Hermione repeated to her first year class. “That’s why you’ll never see him, or what he really looks like.” She would have preferred to claim her teaching assistant was female, to get them off the track of possibly thinking of just which _man_ could take over a Potions class, _but Maisie already saw Severus, on the Boggart day._ “No, I didn’t say what his name was, and I’m not about to. He prefers his privacy. Mr Aitkins, if your hand is up because you have more questions about this morning, you may as well lower it again.” Colin did so, expression crestfallen. “Look, all of you. I’m sorry about the disruption this morning. My teaching assistant has a peculiar sense of humour at times. Class dismissed.”

As soon as the corridor cleared of students making the most of a fifteen-minute early mark, she stormed down it to Snape’s door and hammered on it. When it opened, she hitched her teaching robe more securely over her shoulders and stomped down the hall to Snape’s sitting room.

Harry was already there, leaning casually against the mantle-piece. The Polyjuice had worn off and Snape, his usual self, sat in his armchair.

“—safely back under lock and key,” Harry said as Hermione came through the door. “Hello, Hermione.”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “I see you survived your assault by hysterical eleven-year-olds?”

Hermione put her hands on her hips. “Have you both _lost_ your _minds_? In what _possible_ universe is _Severus Snape_ disguising himself as me and teaching first year Potions a good idea?”

“We had _actual_ Professor Snape teaching us for six years, and we turned out alright,” Harry pointed out.

“They thought you were going to kill them!” Hermione told Snape. “They were literally running for their lives when they crashed into me! They’re traumatised! Probably scarred for life!”

 Harry smiled. “Like we were after the Troll? Not to mention the Basilisk, the —”

“You are not taking this seriously!” Hermione snapped.

“Oh, come on, Hermione.” Harry grinned at her. “From what Professor Snape said, they did very well. Spotted the substitution, cast a couple of appropriate spells, and got away.”

Hermione was angry enough to stamp her foot. “That is not the point! They’re _my_ students, and I’m responsible for them, and I won’t have them bullied and belittled and _terrified_ , not to mention given a Potion to brew that they’re not remotely ready for.” She threw up her hands. “It would be one thing if I could approve of your approach to teaching, Severus, it’s quite another —”

Snape rose to his feet and drew himself up to his full height. “I have been teaching Potions since before you were _born_ ,” he hissed. “I do not require your _approval_.”  

“If you want to set foot in my classroom again, you do,” Hermione said firmly. _Because, really, someone as devious and as logical as Snape would have come up with a plan that didn_ _’t put him to that much trouble if he hadn’t really_ wanted _to teach that class._

“Unlikely to arise,” he said coldly. “Since my only reason to do so was to prevent the children from inflicting injuries on themselves or others in your absence —”

“And you just happened to have Polyjuice prepared?”

“I happen to have a great many things prepared, Granger, particularly those potions whose brewing takes considerable time.” He raised his eyebrows. “Is this the Muggle way of expressing gratitude?” he drawled. “Because I must inform you, Granger, it falls rather short by wizarding standards. I went to _considerable_ trouble to relieve you of the burden of your first class, and —”

“Now look here,” Hermione heard herself say, and stopped. _Sentences that start with_ _‘now look here’ tend to end badly._

_And I suppose that if I_ _’d been stuck down here for five years, I’d be ready to jump at the opportunity for a little human interaction, even in a classroom._

Not that Severus Snape would admit such a thing in a million years.

“I appreciate that,” she said as mildly as she could. “And of course I’m very grateful for the trouble, and the effort, you took last night, helping me. I don’t mind admitting it would be handy to have someone to share the teaching occasionally. _And_ the marking. But don’t you see, you can’t send them running in terror —”

“I didn’t anticipate they’d perceive the deception,” Snape admitted, although, being Snape, he managed to make it sound as if it had been the students’ fault they’d noticed Professor Granger wasn’t Hermione.

“Besides, it’s not the first Hogwarts class taught by a Polyjuiced pretender, is it?” Harry asked cheerfully.

“Harry Potter, Barty Crouch Junior is not a good example for _anything_! He was a _Death Eater_ planning to have you _killed_.”

“Point,” Harry conceded.

Hermione levelled her finger at Snape. “I’ve told the class that my teaching assistant has a horrible facial disfigurement and a bizarre sense of humour.” Harry laughed and Snape glared at him. “Which patches things for now, but no more Polyjuice. There can’t be two Professor Grangers running around Hogwarts.” He gave her a slight nod of acquiescence.  “I’m not saying _never_ , but you’ll have to show me I can trust you with my students before I even consider letting you take a few classes again.”

Snape took the bait. “And how exactly do you propose I do that?”

 _I knew it! He really did do it because he missed teaching, at least a little._ “My marking,” Hermione told him. “You can start doing some again — _properly_. The way I would.”

He raised his eyebrows. “While I have previously expressed willingness to assist you with your marking until you manage to acquire appropriate efficiency, I will _not_ waste my time making, as you phrased them, _helpful remarks_ on ill-informed screeds.”

“Helpful remarks, or no teaching,” Hermione said. It was a good exit line, and she made the most of it, sweeping from the room with a Snape-like swish of her robe — slightly ruined by tripping over the hem of it in the hallway, but at least it was out of Snape’s sight.

Not Harry’s, who’d followed her. He caught her arm and steadied her. “I don’t think they’re really all that emotionally scarred, you know. I mean, according to Professor Snape, the three of them have already been to the Forbidden Forest at night and captured a Boggart. I’m guessing they’re pretty hard to traumatise.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Not the point, Harry.” She led the way back to her classroom, and waited until the door was closed. “Letting him loose on _first year_ students, I mean, he was bad enough to _us_ and that was before he went through Voldemort coming back, and being a spy, and then being in hiding with only two people alive to talk to for _five years._ Honestly, Harry!”

Harry shrugged, taking one of the student’s stools. “He suggested it. I sort of felt I owed him the chance.” He tilted his head a little. “And that you did, too.”

“Oh.” Hermione felt her anger ebb away a little. She leaned against the bench next to him. “I do owe him, I know, and it’s obvious he wanted to do it, he must be horribly lonely by now, but still, Harry. What if one of them had tried to cast an offensive spell instead of running away?”

Harry grinned at her. “You’re worried about Severus Snape being hexed by an eleven-year-old?”

“I’m worried about what a man with a filthy temper and a war veteran’s reflexes would _do_ to that eleven-year-old,” Hermione retorted.

“Give him more credit,” Harry suggested. “I saw him fight McGonagall and Flitwick, the night we came back to Hogwarts. He was fighting for his life, and we know now he was fighting to stay alive long enough to give me Dumbledore’s message. He still didn’t even try to hurt them. He’d _Expelliarmus_ a student who tried to hex him in a heartbeat, but Snape would never hurt a child. Besides …” He hesitated a moment. “He’s in pretty good control of his magic, you know. Last night was convincing proof.”

“I know it was difficult,” Hermione said. “I could tell — he looked completely exhausted.”

“It took a lot of power,” Harry agreed. “But more than that — I don’t know exactly how to explain it. Curse-breaking is … it’s like doing a puzzle. Or undoing a knot. One that will remake itself if you hesitate even a second before you pull on the next thread. It takes absolute focus. I don’t think there’s anyone I’ve ever seen who could have done a better job of it than Professor Snape.”

Hermione bit her lip. “You know what that means, don’t you? If he can’t break the curse on _him_ , there’s no-one else who could, either.”

Harry nodded. “The only way is to find who’s doing it, and persuade them to lift it.”

“What if they won’t?” Hermione asked.

Harry’s mouth set in a grim line that, for a moment, made him look so much like his seventeen-year-old self that Hermione could almost smell the fallen leaves in the Forest of Dean and feel the chill in the air. “Then I think one more _Imperius_ in a good cause won’t do my soul any irreparable harm.”

 Hermione put her hand on his arm. “Harry — they’ll send you to Azkaban for that. It’s not the War anymore.”

“I think saving a life will be a pretty good defence,” Harry said. He shrugged a little, looking down at his feet. “And I’ll take the risk. Don’t tell Professor Snape, though.”

“He’s got a right to know —”

“Hermione, he’ll never let my mum’s son risk Azkaban. He’ll insist on doing it himself, and they _will_ sentence him for it. I’m the Boy Who Lived. He’s a former Death Eater with only my word for it that he wasn’t, really. If he uses one of the Unforgivables …” He shrugged again. “There’s no way Kingsley can let that go.”

“Now you’re making Severus one of _your_ causes,” Hermione said.

“Well, if I didn’t owe him enough five years ago, I certainly owe him now.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “I’m waiting on an owl from a colleague with the list of potential suspects. There must be someone I’ve forgotten about, because I’m _sure_ the magic is something I’ve seen before.” He sighed. “But it’s got a really strange left-handed twist to it that I can’t imagine I’d forget.”

“Could it be a new curse, one you haven’t seen before?”

Harry shook his head. “Apart from the handwriting, it’s fairly bog-standard. Straight out of _Dark Spells for Desperate Days_.”

“Then maybe that’s because it’s being cast the way it is?” Hermione suggested. “I mean, you’ve never seen a Killing Curse cast on a Protean Charm that’s also a tattoo, have you?”

“Maybe.” Harry took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Hard to know what effect that has, though.”

“Not really,” Hermione said. “I mean, we know all the elements, don’t we?” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Killing Curse, Protean Charm, Blood Magic. There’s got to be a limited number of ways to combine the relevant parts of them.” She stood up. “I’ll get working on it this evening.”

“You should probably take it easy for a few days,” Harry objected.

Hermione grinned at him. “I will. Remember — Snape’s going to be doing my marking.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know if Blood Magic is really a thing in Harry Potter canon, but blood certainly has some power in canon — for example, Voldemort can touch Harry after his resurrection because it was Harry’s blood that was in the resurrection spell, and Lily Potter’s protection continues after Harry ‘dies’ because his blood is still alive in Voldemort. So I’ve just sort of run with it a bit.  
> Only two chapters before we find out just who is cursing Snape! Any theories?


	56. Chapter 56: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione makes a discovery, and Harry has a startling realisation.

 

After her last class of the day, Hermione left Professor Snape with a pile of fifth-year essays and strict instructions, and headed for the Library. _Hopefully after five years of Slughorn, they_ _’ve achieved enough competence not to try Snape’s patience too sorely. Although, thinking of Fiona Firesmith …_

Reassuring herself that she’d go through all the essays carefully before giving them back to the students, Hermione put them firmly from her mind.

 _Killing Curses, Protean Charms, Blood Magic_ _… it’s the Restricted Section for me._

She passed Maisie Wilkins and her two accomplices bent over books, a stack of tomes in front of them. Giving into curiosity, she lingered on the other side of the shelf to them to eavesdrop a moment. _If I had the Invisibility Cloak, I could read over their shoulders_ _…_

By stooping a little, she could peer between the tops of the books and the shelf above them.

Maisie slammed her book shut. “Maybe we’re looking in the wrong place.”

Colin sighed. “This is the Library at Hogwarts. Every magical thing that every happened or ever exists is written down somewhere in these books. We’re looking in exactly the _right_ place.”

“Then why haven’t we found anything about the Key?”

“Because there’s about a thousand thousand books in here, and you’re always carping instead of _reading_.” Mike turned a page.

“There’s got to be a faster way,” Maisie grumbled. “A reading spell, or something.”

“What you do is, you look at those funny black marks on the page, and they turn into words. It’s magic!”

Maisie rolled her eyes, but she opened her book again. 

Smiling to herself, Hermione continued on her way. _Severus said he was going to hide the clue about the Key well._

Her smile faded as she approached the Restricted Section. Reminding herself to cast a Patronus every now and again, she made her selections and sat down to begin her research.

 _Dark Spells for Desperate Days_ was revolting, filled with illustrations of what the curses inside could actually do. Hermione flipped past pictures of witches who seemed to be having their lungs drawn out through their noses, wizards in boneless puddles, and others so horrible she refused to look at them closely enough to identify the particular brand of nastiness. Finally she reached the page with the image of a wizard withered almost to a corpse. _Cast on the dark of the moon for maximum effect, but can be used at any time_ _… incantation_ Homini Imputresco _… place on object the desired target will hold or wear._ That had been what Voldemort had done to his ring. _This was probably the curse he used._

Taking out her wand, Hermione cast a quick _Patronus_ before starting to take notes. It was non-corporeal, as her Patronus had been since the War. For years, she’d been taking it as a sign that her magic really was weaker than she’d thought, and avoided mentioning it to Harry or Ron. Now, though, she realised it had probably been another symptom of Bellatrix’s curse. Hopefully she’d see her little otter frisking through the air again soon.

It was a relief to shut the book of Dark Magic and turn to Protean Charms. She read carefully, both refreshing her memory and looking for any hint that they could be used to transmit magic. None of the accounts mentioned that, although the ability to make a Protean Charm change temperature was commonly used by those who wanted to send messages. _I did that myself_ … Hermione tapped her teeth with her quill. _I wonder what the difference would be? After all, the heat or cold is transferred_ through _magic_ _… if I was going to make the Dumbledore’s Army coins send out sparks when there was a message, how would I do it? Not a switching spell … you can’t really transfer magic like that anyway … the only way to curse someone through a Protean Charm would be to curse the original, and thus change the target charm to be cursed too, but that_ can’t _be what_ _’s happening, can it, or they would have noticed one of the Death Eaters in Azkaban dying … maybe the witch or wizard doing it is lifting the curse, or letting it fade? Is that why Snape’s getting better sometimes and worse at others?_

She wrote all that down in a neat list, and turned to Blood Magic.

The sources were distressingly vague. _Although that_ _’s probably just as well, or Voldemort would have known from the get-go that using Harry’s blood to bring himself back to life would end in disaster for him._ Hermione waded through discussions of the effect of menstruation on a witch’s magic that clearly hadn’t been updated since the invention of tampons, a long, detailed and completely wrongheaded explanation of blood-bonds between members of the same family, and a completely infuriating screed about “pure” blood versus Muggle blood before she finally found what she was looking for. _The addition of blood — magical blood — to any charm or spell should be undertaken only with the greatest caution. The results can be extremely unpredictable, and may even invert the outcome completely. If this does not occur, however, the spell can be enhanced, and made to serve purposes not within the capacity of the original spell. For example, it may endure beyond a normal duration, or become more powerful._

She closed the book. _I bet the Dark Mark is just an ordinary Protean Charm, then. It_ _’s capable of carrying the curse from one Death Eater to another — or to Severus — because there’s blood in it._

But the curse would have to be different too, in that case. It would have to be shaped more like a Protean Charm, and the casting gesture would have to be different, too. She rehearsed the wand motion in her head. _Up, around_ _… and left, instead of right._

 _Didn_ _’t Harry say something about a left-hand twist?_

She pulled her own Protean Charm, the good old Dumbledore’s Army galleon, from her pocket. _Room of Requirement NOW_ , she sent. Then, scooping up the two books, Hermione bolted from the Library, Madam Pince’s protests fading behind her.

The others arrived in the Room of Requirement soon after Hermione, Neville a bit breathless. “Ran all the way from the Greenhouses,” he said, and grinned. “It’s like old times, emergency summons and all.”

“I think I know why Harry can’t work out who’s casting the curse,” Hermione said. “Look.” She dropped the book of Dark Magic on the table and opened it. “There.”

The concentrated malice on the page seemed to hover above the book like a heat haze, and all six of them recoiled slightly.

Neville raised his wand. “ _Expecto Patronum!_ ”

A shape burst from the tip of his wand, huge wings outstretched, long primary feathers fanned like the fingers of a hand.  Bald head stretched forward, the vulture swooped through the glimmer of malice, bursting it apart, and soared around the room before disappearing through the wall.

“Blimey,” Ron said. “Was that —?”

Neville nodded, grinning. “Gran’s hat. You know how I never managed to cast a corporeal patronus? After the battle, Gran said to me that she knew my parents would be proud of me, because she’d never been prouder of any member of the family in her life as she was of me. And the next time I had to cast one, I was thinking of that, of how it made me feel, and …” He shrugged. “Gran’s quite chuffed about it.”

“It was beautiful, Neville,” Luna said. “They’re such lovely birds.”

“The book,” Hermione said, sharp with impatience. “Look!” She leaned over it, running her finger down the page. “Of all the killing curses in the entire Library, Harry, you said this is the closest to the one on Severus.”

“So it’s being done by a former Hogwarts student,” Neville said. “That was always likely, wasn’t it?”

Hermione shook her head. “No, that’s not what I mean. It’s _closest_ , not a match. The difference isn’t down to who’s casting it, Harry, not entirely. Look. The wand movements described here, up, around, right … that’s the same as a dozen Transfiguration charms, it’s really common in spells on objects. But this one, it isn’t being cast on an object. You said it had a left-hand twist? That’s from Protean Charms, that twist. The curse, it’s not the same as the book. Someone’s changed it, I hate to say _improved_ , but they’ve made it up for themselves. _That_ _’s_ why your Auror-thing isn’t helping, don’t you see? You’re looking at it wrong.”

Harry leaned forward as well, studying the page. “I think I see what you mean … as if we’ve been assuming the variations are handwriting, but they’re actually vocabulary.”

“Yes!” Hermione bounced upright again. “Surely you can get a list of which Aurors have a tendency to make up their own spells, and find the commonality!”

“Not many,” Ron said. “It’s bloody difficult, making up a new charm, let alone coming up with a significant variation on a killing curse. I mean you can blow yourself up trying to adjust _Aberto_ to work on curtains as well. Messing about with something like _this_ —” He tapped the page in the book. “One sneeze at the wrong time and the Aurors would be cleaning you up with a bucket and mop.” Then his mind visibly caught up with his mouth. “Uh, sorry, Luna, I know …”

She smiled. “It’s alright. I’m quite used to it, now.”

“Ron being a tactless prat?” Ginny said.

“That too,” Luna agreed.

 “So?” Hermione said. “Can you do it? Is there some kind of register of new spells made by Aurors you can compare the curse on Severus too?”

“Mmm,” Harry said absently.

“Is that yes?” Hermione demanded.

“What?” He looked up, green eyes still distant. “Oh, yes, I suppose. I was just thinking … you know, when I look at it the right way, Snape’s curse _does_ remind me of something.” He looked down at the book again. “It reminds me of _Sectumsempra_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally made up the curse Homini Imputresco. The Latin means ‘person decay’ or ‘person rot, or at least I hope it does! I should have mentioned in the notes in the last chapter, I made up the book Dark Spells for Desperate Days, too.
> 
> Have you guessed yet?


	57. Chapter 57: Harry Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has a theory, and Hermione comes up with an idea …

 

Hermione gaped at Harry. “ _Sectumsempra_? But that’s the hex from the book, the Half Blood Prince’s book — and Severus _is_ the Half Blood Prince —” She sat down abruptly, as if her knees had refused to hold her up.

“Somebody else found that book, before Harry?” Ron suggested. “Learnt the spells, and that sort of influenced them?”

Harry’s gaze held Hermione’s steadily. “I don’t think so. Do you, Hermione?”

She shook her head. “No. That’s not it, Ron. That’s not it at all.”

One of them was going to have to say it aloud, Harry knew. He didn’t want it to be him, but he didn’t want it to be Hermione, either. _If I say it, I might still be wrong._ He took a deep breath. “Professor Snape’s doing it to himself,” he said flatly. “He’s casting the curse on himself.”

“That’s why it started at the anniversary of Charity Burbage’s murder,” Luna said. “Ginny, you were right all along.” She paused. “And so was I, of course. July was the biggest clue.”

Harry nodded. “The anniversary of her death, the year after her nephew started at Hogwarts. And it got worse so suddenly, when we forced him to go and see her sister.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “He even said it. Remember Hermione? When we first suggested he come with us to see Patience Monkshod. He said if she wanted revenge on him for Charity’s death, she deserved to have it.”

“And it’s why the curse gets better, sometimes,” Hermione whispered. “It never _was_ my potions. Or someone freshening up the curse at different times. It got worse when he was forced to think about Professor Burbage, about what happened to her. And I suppose everything that went along with it — joining the Death Eaters in the first place. Your mum, Harry. It got better after he’d been spending time — trying to make me a better teacher, and talking about students, and everything.”

“Living,” Luna said. “When he’s living.”

“That’s what Aberforth meant.” Ginny ran her hand over her face. “He never had the knack for making friends … he was hard to like. But _she_ was his friend, Professor Burbage was.”

Hermione nodded. “Aberforth did mean for us to know that it was someone taking revenge for Charity Burbage, after all. Just not the person we thought it would be.”

“How did Aberforth know?” Ron asked. “I mean, know Snape was alive, in the first place. And know what was wrong with him.”

“You hid him in the Room of Requirement, didn’t you?” Neville asked Hermione. She nodded. “Then I bet Ariana told him. Or showed him. It’s dead bizarre, the way the Room lets her have her way with it.” He frowned. “I really believed he wanted us to solve it, you know, that Snape did. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s a good actor.”

“I think he did want us to, does want us to,” Hermione said. “I don’t think he knows he’s doing it to himself.”

Neville’s eyebrows went up. “How can you cast a Killing Curse if you don’t know you’re doing it?”

“The same way you bounced when you were thrown out of a window as a kid, and I grew my hair back overnight,” Harry said. “They teach us at school to _always_ use wands and _always_ use incantations, until we’re so used to it that wandless magic, silent spells, are hard or even impossible to learn — but it’s the first kind of magic most of us ever use, isn’t it, doing things without understanding what we’re doing or even that we’re doing it?”

“And Snape can do both,” Ron said slowly. “Deliberately, I mean.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Neville said. “Because if he’s doing it silently and without a wand, how did Aberforth know?”

“Well, it happens when you’re really upset about something,” Harry said. “Like me inflating Vernon’s horrible sister. I didn’t mean to do it, I didn’t know I was doing it, and I couldn’t stop myself.” He shrugged. “I still get the occasional midnight howling horrors over Cedric Diggory dying, and I didn’t really know him and he didn’t suffer. What kind of dreams do you think Professor Snape has about what Riddle did to Professor Burbage?”

“So we just tell him he’s put the curse on himself, and he can stop doing it, and that’s that,” Ron said.

“Like George stopped drinking, that year after Fred?” Hermione said. “Because people told him it was bad for him?” She shook her head. “You don’t just _get over_ things because someone points out you haven’t.”

“Yes, but George _did_ stop,” Ron pointed out.

“Because Harry and I dragged him to therapy, three times a week, for eight months,” Hermione said.

“And thank Circe’s sacred socks we found a shrink who was a Squib,” Harry said. “Or I’d _still_ be doing the paperwork on all the Obliviates.”

“So drag Snape along to the Squib shrink, then,” Ron said.

There was a small silence as all six of them tried and failed to imagine Severus Snape in therapy.

“There is something we can do, you know,” Luna said in her silvery voice. “I mean, we’re already doing it, aren’t we? And it seems to be working.” She looked from one confused face to another. “Be his friends.”

“Be Severus Snape’s friend,” Ron said flatly.

“He’s not that bad,” Hermione said.

Ron raised his eyebrows. “He’s about exactly that bad, Hermione. He’s exactly the same rude, sarcastic, greasy git he was the entire time he was teaching us.”

“The same rude, sarcastic, greasy git who saved Harry’s life? Who risked his own life to spy on Voldemort for the Order? Who did every single thing Dumbledore asked, no matter what it cost him?”

“I’m just saying, it’s a lot easier to admire him for all that from a safe distance,” Ron said, and Neville gave a snort of laughter. “When he’s not right in front of me, doing his best to make me want to punch him.”

“Just because he’s hard to like, doesn’t mean we can’t try,” Luna said. “Professor Burbage liked him, didn’t she?”

“Shall I ask him out for a pint, then?” Ron asked. “Oh, that’s right, he can’t go out in public. Suggest a quick game of chess?

“Ask him about Defence Against the Dark Arts,” Ginny suggested. “Tell him you want his insight onto where the jinx might be hidden.”

“Tell him I’ve asked you to help with the Quest,” Hermione said.

 “How is the quest for the Quidditch Key going, anyway?” Neville asked.

Hermione shrugged a little. “They still haven’t started looking, so not very well. But at least it’s keeping them in the Library, and not wandering the Forbidden Forest.”

“Do you want me to drop a hint at some point?” Harry said. “I mean, much longer and they’ll get bored of the idea.” He grinned. “They are only eleven.”

“ _We_ didn’t get bored looking for the Philosopher’s Stone,” Hermione pointed out.

 “Well, one, we had Tom Riddle as an incentive,” Harry said. “And two, Ron and I would have stopped ages before we uncovered it if you hadn’t kept nagging us.”

   “Harry and I can make it seem completely natural,” Ginny said. She turned to Harry. “Gee, Harry, I wish I’d had the Quidditch Key that time I had to sub in as Seeker for you. A way to make the Snitch fly straight for you would have been super!”

“I know, Ginny,” Harry said. “I hope no students find it before we do — it would guarantee their House winning the Cup!”

“That’s about as natural as Madam Rosmerta’s hair-colour,” Ron said.

“We’ll make it work,” Ginny said cheerfully. “Harry’s used to being all deceptive, because, Auror. And I’m just naturally gifted.”

“Back to Professor Snape,” Neville said. “I get the idea of sort of cheering him up —” He stopped. “I just said that out loud, didn’t I? Cheer up Professor Snape?”

“Distract him,” Luna said softly. “Give him things to think about that aren’t the War, and what he did, and what he wishes he _had_ done.”

“The day he spent creating the Quest, the curse shrank by about two-thirds,” Hermione said.

“Right, so, that’s good,” Neville said. “But it’s not going to get rid of it, is it? And what happens when we all go home for the summer? Is someone going to take Professor Snape home for the holidays to make sure he doesn’t start brooding on things again? Because, and please don’t take this the wrong way, Hermione, bags not me if that’s the case. He might not be my Boggart any more, but he’s not exactly _social_ , is he?”

“He can come with Daddy and me to Sweden,” Luna said. “I don’t mind. And an extra set of eyes to spot the Snorkack would be quite helpful.” 

“Oh, Merlin’s _beard_ ,” Ron said quietly. Harry had a sudden vision of Severus Snape dragooned into a hunt for one of Luna’s impossible creatures, scrambling up hill and down fjord. He caught Hermione’s eye and they both grinned. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Luna, but —”

“But we don’t need to worry about that now,” Hermione said firmly. “Look. We need a two-stage strategy. Stage one is keeping Professor Snape alive. That means _all_ of us, Ron, have to spend time keeping him, as Luna said, distracted.”

“And stage two?”

Hermione bit her lip. “Stage two is obviously making sure he gets over blaming himself for Professor Burbage’s death.”

“That’s not the only thing he’s responsible for, though, is it?” Ron pointed out. “I mean, alright, he had to keep his cover, so I won’t mention the students who were beaten and tortured when Snape was Headmaster. Or George’s ear. But nobody forced him to join the Death Eaters, and nobody forced him to tell old Holeyshorts the prophecy.”

“Don’t you think he’s paid for that?” Hermione said. “For a mistake he made, all those years ago,when he was young?”

“Not that young,” Ron said. “And how old do you have to be, anyway, to know that signing up to someone calling themselves a Dark Lord is probably a very bad idea?” He looked at Harry. “Your parents knew, Sirius and Lupin knew, Neville’s parents knew, _my_ parents knew, right from the get-go.”

 Harry remembered how horrified and unhappy he had been after viewing Severus Snape’s memory of being humiliated and taunted by Harry’s own father, in front of jeering onlookers — how he’d felt himself, in the same situation — remembered Sirius and Remus admitting that his father had carried on targeting Snape for the rest of their schooling. “I imagine that was part of it,” he said quietly. “He and my Dad hated each other from the day they met.”

“That’s like saying Draco became a Death Eater because you and he didn’t get on,” Ron said impatiently. “Snape’s the same age as your parents would be, Harry. The First Wizarding War had been going on for years when he joined. People were being murdered. If we’d been around, we might have been murdered — Hermione for being Muggle-born, and us for being her friends.”

“And if Severus Snape hadn’t changed sides, if he hadn’t started spying for the Order of the Phoenix, the First Wizarding War would have been the _Last_ Wizarding War,” Hermione said. “Ron. I’m not blind to the fact that he signed up to an organisation that would have killed my parents and me just for being what we are. But that’s one year, in a whole life. Should we just let him die, because of that one year?”

“I’m not saying that,” Ron said. “All that was true when we found out about the curse, and set out to try and break it. I’m just saying that a quick chat over a cuppa to remind him that he couldn’t have single handedly taken on however-many Death Eaters were there when they murdered Professor Burbage isn’t going to cut it, is it? Because either he’s still the same man who only switched sides in the hope he’d get to comfort the widow —”

“He isn’t,” Harry said with certainty. “In the Pensieve …” _How many men and women have you watched die?_ Dumbledore had asked, and Snape had replied, _Lately, only those whom I could not save._ He shook his head. “He wasn’t, long before the end of the War.”

“Then he’s got a fair bit more on his conscience than one death, doesn’t he?” Ron said. “Who gives absolution for _that_?” 

“I might have an idea,” Hermione said slowly. “I’ll have to think about it, for a bit. But it _might_ work.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Pensieve memory Harry recalls are quotes from the book.  
> In Deathly Hallows, Ariana’s portrait clearly has a different relationship to the passage it conceals than other portraits, although what and how exactly isn’t clear — so I ran with it.  
> As you can see, I’m extrapolating a fair few things about magic and how it possibly works from hints and throw-away lines, as I did in Chapter 46 with the Boggart and when Mike Rowland subconsciously used the Supersensory Spell.  
> What mad idea does Hermione have — and how badly is it likely to go?


	58. 58: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione has a plan …

_Stage one_. _Be casual. Don_ _’t let him know you have ulterior motives._ That was easier said than done: Hermione had the feeling that Severus Snape spotted ulterior motives as easily as other people spotted that the sun was shining. She could just imagine what his reaction would be if he did. _Of all the things Severus Snape does exceptionally well, accepting sympathy or help are not two of them._

She knocked on his door. When he let her in, she strolled as nonchalantly as she could into his sitting room.

“I need to borrow the Invisibility Cloak,” she said.

Snape was at his desk. He looked up and raised his eyebrows. “And return it when, precisely?” he asked.

“As soon as I think it’s too late for our Tempestuous Trio to sneak out and try and find the Key. I want to keep an eye on them.”

“While I remain trapped here,” Snape said sourly. “Doing your marking.”

“In durance vile,” Hermione agreed cheerfully. “Unless you’d like to come with me? The cloak is big enough for three teenagers, I’m sure it would cover both of us.”

He cast a jaundiced look at the pile of scrolls in front of him. “And when do you suggest I complete all these _helpful remarks_?”

“We’ll do them together, later,” Hermione said. She grinned at him. “That way I can help you when you get stuck trying to say something remotely encouraging.”

Snape snorted derisively, but he rose to his feet, and Hermione was almost certain she saw the corner of his mouth turn up. “I will use the cloak,” he said. “ _You_ have every reason to lurk about the corridors at night.”

“Yes, but I don’t want them to spot me and go back to bed,” Hermione pointed out.

Snape sighed. He took the Invisibility Cloak from a drawer in his desk. “You may share the Cloak when we reach a suitable vantage point. I have no intention of stumbling through Hogwarts in an approximation of a three-legged race.”

“Do wizards _have_ those?”

Snape flung the Cloak around himself and vanished. Invisible, his deep voice sounded even more sepulchral. “As difficult as it may be for you to imagine, Granger, some aspects of my childhood resembled some aspects of yours.”

 _The_ Half _Blood Prince. Of course._ Although it was difficult to imagine Severus Snape as a child, he had been one, and one in the Muggle world. “How about egg and spoon, then?”

“Not an event at which I excelled.”

The mental image made her grin. “Me neither. I was banned from the M.S. Readathon, though.”

She could only just hear his footsteps, following her down the short hallway to the dungeon corridor. “Banned from reading? It must have been agony for you.”

“Not from reading.” Hermione opened the door, leaned out to check there was no-one nearby, and stepped through. “It’s a fundraiser, for an illness called Multiple Sclerosis. Kids go around and get people to commit to giving them money for every book they read in a month. Like, if someone says they’ll give you a galleon — it would be a pound, of course — for every book, if you read three books, they give you three pounds — galleons. If you read four —”

“I am familiar with the basic principles of multiplication,” Snape said acidly as they reached the corner and turned left towards the Hufflepuff dormitory.  

“Well, the first year I did it, all the teachers at school sponsored me a pound a book. It was sort of standard — they wanted to encourage students to read.”

“Again, a concept I am familiar with,” Snape said. “Is there a point to this meandering narrative?”

“I read one hundred and fourteen books,” Hermione said, still feeling a flash of pride, all these years later. “The next year, they sponsored me one pence a book, so I camped out in my parents’ waiting room and got their clients to sponsor me. That year, I read one hundred and thirty five books. There were a lot of complaints to the school, and after that, I wasn’t allowed to do it.”

“You were banned from participating in an activity purely because you excelled at it?”

Hermione nodded. “Unfair, right?”

“I was simply imagining how preferable it would have been to apply similar standards to Potter when it came to Quidditch.” Snape paused. “This seems appropriate?”

Hermione peered down the corridor. The door to the Hufflepuff dormitory was clearly visible. “Yes, this’ll do.”

The next moment the gauzy Invisibility Cloak settled around her. It was a familiar feeling for all the years since she’d hidden under it with Harry and Ron, as the rest of the world took on a slightly hazy appearance.

What was not at all familiar was sharing the Cloak with Severus Snape, who was most definitely taller and more solid than either Harry or Ron had been when they’d used the cloak to sneak out to see Hagrid or follow Draco Malfoy. Hermione had to stand quite close to him to keep her feet hidden, close enough to feel the warmth of his body through the thick fabric of his jacket, close enough for his breath to stir her hair.

She was suddenly acutely aware of him, not as a problem to be solved, or as a cause to be defended, but as another person, unique, irreplaceable, a miracle of blood and bone — _and sarcasm and savage humour and startling moments of self-mockery_ — a person who pushed himself to exhaustion to take a curse from her, who had hidden himself in obscurity rather than contest for his place in history —

Who was standing with her, in a dungeon corridor in the dead of night, watching for first-year students setting out on her ridiculous invented quest because she had asked him, and because Hogwarts students couldn’t be allowed to come to harm.

“I apologise for the proximity,” Snape murmured. With her shoulder jammed against his chest, Hermione could feel his voice as easily as she could hear it. “This Cloak may be large enough for three adolescents, but it strains to contain two adults.”

“I’m alright,” she whispered. “If you are.”

He snorted softly. “Hardly the most discomfort or inconvenience you, Potter or Weasley have put me to.”

“I could set you on fire if that would make this more familiar?” Hermione offered.

“Thank you, I’ll decline the offer.” She couldn’t see Snape’s face without craning her neck, but surely that was a hint of amusement in his voice? “Besides, that was only once.” He paused. “Or so you assure me.”

“It was.” She frowned. “Have you been set on fire other times? Because they definitely weren’t me.”

“Granger, this is a Cloak of Invisibility, not a Cloak of Inaudibility,” Snape said. 

“Right, sorry.”

They stood in silence for a while, but the door to the Hufflepuff dormitory stayed closed.

Hermione sighed. “They probably won’t try tonight, I guess.”

“I doubt they’ve even found the clue, let alone deciphered it,” Snape said.

“Where did you hide it?”

“Chapter thirty-seven of Harold Hightower’s _History of Magical Artifacts_.”

“Oh, Severus, they’ll _never_ find it. Even _I_ struggled to get through that book.”

“You suggested challenges that _test_ them, did you not?”

Hermione grinned. “Boredom is a test?”

“A test they will have to overcome many times in their lives. Now is a good time to learn.” Snape sounded severe. Hermione wished she could see whether or not there was a glint of humour in his eyes.

She found the edge of the cloak and slipped out from under it. “I think I might have to take Harry up on his offer to drop a subtle hint when they can hear it.”

“Potter? _Subtle_?”

“He was almost sorted into Slytherin, you know,” Hermione pointed out. She started back towards Snape’s rooms. “So it can’t be beyond him, can it?”

Snape snorted quietly. “Another example of the Hat’s inherent unreliability.” They reached the door, and he stretched a hand from beneath the Invisibility Cloak to open it.

Hermione followed him inside. “Do you want to give me half those essays?” she asked.

Snape removed the cloak in one swift gesture. He shrugged. “They are hardly demanding, Granger. Surely there are better uses of your time?”

 Hermione slipped her wand from her sleeve and transfigured his coffee table into chair for herself. Setting it on the other side of his desk, she sat down. “Well, then, I’ll check the ones you’ve done.”

Snape gave her a cold look. “I am not a student who needs their work _corrected_ , Granger.”

Hermione sighed. “Professor Snape. Do we have to have this conversation again? If you were still Potions Professor, I wouldn’t have any right to tell you how to teach, but you aren’t. _I_ am. The buck, as we say in the Muggle world, stops with me. I know I have a long way to go to, for example, spot potions that are about to explode with more than a few seconds to spare, but there are some things about teaching I do get right, and one of them is encouraging students instead of terrifying them into obedience.” She pointed to the pile of scrolls. “So hand them over.”

He did so, with a sneer. “I’ll have you know I had an exemplary pass rate at both O.W.L and N.E.W.T level.”

“And became a student’s Boggart,” Hermione pointed out.

Snape smiled a little as he took his own seat. “Yes. One of my proudest moments.”

She stared at him. _He actually means it_. “You enjoy it, don’t you? I mean, I always thought you just didn’t care about being liked or being nice, but you enjoyed making us miserable.”

He raised an eyebrow, reaching for another scroll. “I believe I read somewhere that the key to contentment is to exercise one’s talents in the way best suited.”

“Just because you’ve got a flair for sarcasm doesn’t mean the best way to use it is making students cry,” Hermione snapped.

“Isn’t it part of the responsibility of teaching to prepare students to face the world beyond school?” Snape made a note in the margin of the essay in front of him. “Are they, in your opinion, to be sent out unarmed against insult and offence?”

“School students usually do a fairly good job of practising insult and offence against each other, in my opinion,” Hermione said. “You were the most hated teacher in the school, you know.”

“I’m aware,” Snape said acidly. “A reputation assiduously cultivated, I assure you.”

She watched him for a moment as he made another note. _Exercise one_ _’s talents in the way best suited …_

What had Aberforth said? _Never had the talent for making friends_ _… he was hard to like._ And Aberforth Dumbledore, like Albus Dumbledore, had known Severus Snape when he was a student himself.

Snape had been a largely friendless, and probably disliked, boy. _But I bet he always had a cutting tongue._

Part of her wanted to say _Severus, you_ _’re not as hard to like as you think_ , but she could just imagine his reaction to that. She turned her attention to the essays in front of her, preparing to be tactful about Snape’s ideas of encouraging remarks.

“By the way,” she said as casually as she could, “We need to go somewhere this weekend.” Snape looked up, eyebrows raised. “For the Quest.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But where are they going?
> 
> For those of you who have gotten used to my daily posting schedule, there are going to be a few days between chapters for a little while — but for a good reason! I’ve got the rest of this fic fully plotted and 90% written, but I keep tweaking and moving bits of dialogue from one conversation to another, and I want to be 100% happy with everything before I post it, so I’ll be slowing down the posting to a few chapters a week to give myself time to do that.


	59. Chapter 59: Colin Aitkins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin finds a clue

 

Colin raced into the Hufflepuff common room. “I’ve got it, I’ve got it!”  He waved Harold Hightower’s _History of Magical Artifacts_ at Maisie. “I was just about to give up for the night when I found it, right at the back!”

She gave him a meaningful look, and then glanced pointedly around the room, which was full of students, many of whom were now watching Colin curiously. _Oh_.

“Um. Professor Binns will have to give me an ‘O’ for my essay if I include a reference to the Midnight Manacles!”

Curiosity and interest vanished as quickly at the mention of Professor Binns as they did in his classroom.

“Great, Colin,” Maisie said a little too loudly. She pushed the cards in front of her across the table to the other students. “One of you, play my cards. I’m not having any luck tonight, and I’m sick of getting my fingertips singed.”

Colin waited until she’d casually wandered out of the room in the direction of her dormitory, counted to five, and followed her.

She was waiting in the corridor. “What is it?”

“Look.” He opened the book and leafed through it to chapter thirty-seven. “It’s here.” He held the page so she could see the note inked in the margin in sharp and spiky handwriting. “All Seekers seek the Quidditch Key, for its enchantment attracts the Snitch to the key-bearer.”

“Oh,” Maisie said. She wrinkled her nose. “Seekers.”

“But Maisie, don’t you see? With the Key, you could be on the team as a Seeker, not a Beater.”

“But I don’t want to —”

“Mike, then, for Ravenclaw, if he can keep his broom under control. Didn’t you say that what matters is that one of us, a first year, shows that we’re as good as the older students? What does it matter if you do it as a Seeker or a Beater? You’d be on the team!”

“I suppose,” Maisie said. “It does feel a bit like cheating, though. I’d only be pretending to be good enough.” She set her jaw. “And I really am good enough, as a Beater.”

“I know you are,” Colin said. “We all know you are. But this is more important than that, isn’t it? It’s about our whole year, not just Hufflepuff. All the first year students, having to listen to the sixth and seventh years go on about the Battle of Hogwarts as if they won it single-handed and I bet not a one of them actually fought or anything or were even in Dumbledore’s Army!”

Maisie still looked doubtful. “You do it, then. We’ll find the Key, and you be the Seeker, and I can still be a Beater when the handle grease infusion is finished.”

Colin snorted. “You’ve seen me on a broom. Even Gran couldn’t teach me to stay on, and she sits a broom like she was glued to it. No-one would believe for a second that I wasn’t cheating. But you’re a good flier, everyone already knows you are.” He changed tack. “Look. Let’s just see if we can find it. Then we can hand it in, if you want. That would be almost as good as getting on the team, wouldn’t it? Everyone knowing that three first-year students found something the Hogwarts Professors couldn’t?”

“That would be good,” Maisie admitted. “Alright. Professor Granger said it was on the fifth floor, didn’t she?”

“Yes, but they might have found it already and moved it, to the dungeons.”

“Then there’s no point looking, is there?” Maisie pointed out. “If the idea is to show we can find it when they couldn’t. So we should assume they haven’t found it. Besides, if it’s a real key, then it wasn’t what Professor Potter was carrying, was it? He’d just put in a pocket or something. Does the book say anything else?”

Colin shook his head. “No. The whole chapter is on enchanted keys, but old Hightower didn’t write anything about _our_ key.”

Maisie gave a decisive nod. “Right. Then tomorrow, we tell Mike what we know, and tomorrow night we all meet up on the fifth floor and start looking.”

 “What if there’s something dangerous up there?” Colin asked.

“This is a school, Colin,” Maisie said patiently. “They’d never let anything really dangerous run around loose. There’ll be ghosts, and possibly a Boggart — which Mike can deal with — and probably Filch and Mrs Norris if we’re not careful enough. That’s it.”

It sounded entirely manageable in Maisie’s matter-of-fact voice, but as Colin crept up the staircase to the fifth floor the next night, it felt a great deal less so. In fact it felt like another one of Maisie’s totally mad ideas, but for once, Colin couldn’t blame anyone but himself for the lunacy he was about to embark on.

 _This was_ your _mad idea._

That being the case, he absolutely could not flee back down the stairs to the safety of the brightly lit main corridors far, far below. _No matter how much I want to._

“Colin, come on!” Maisie hissed at him. “It’s a bloody staircase, not Everest!”

He scrambled up the last steps. “A staircase with trick steps,” he pointed out. “That moves about intermittently. And —”

“Yes, alright, it’s a staircase though, isn’t it? Have you seen Mike?”

Colin stared at her. “He left dinner before I did. He isn’t here?” Maisie shook her head. “Do you think something’s happened to him? Should we tell a teacher he’s missing?”

“ _We_ _’re_ missing,” Maisie said patiently. “He probably went to get his homework done first. You know Mike.” She leaned over the balustrade a little further than Colin considered safe. “Look, he’s down there. On his way up.”

Colin tugged her back by her robe. “I’ll take your word for it. Any sign of Filch?”

“I passed Mrs Norris on the third floor, so he’s probably down there.” 

Colin frowned. “Don’t they usually split up, to cover more ground?” He looked around apprehensively. “Did you hear that?”

“What?” Maisie asked. She leaned forward again and waved at Mike.

“A footstep, or something. I’m sure I heard it.”

“You’re imagining it.”

“But what if it’s Filch?”

“If it was Filch, I would have heard it. He stamps around. Mrs Norris is the quiet one.”

Mike came panting up the last flight of stairs. “Sorry I’m late. I had to listen to three of Professor Flitwick’s stories before I could get away.” He produced a slightly squashed cupcake from beneath his robes. “I did manage to pocket this, though, if you’re hungry.”

Maisie took it, divided it neatly in two, and handed half to Colin. “Did he catch you on your way out?”

Mike shook his head. “No, I went to see him. I thought there were probably useful charms for looking for hidden things, and there were.” He took out his wand. “Look. _Lumos_.” The tip of his wand began to glow, casting a soft blue light over the landing.

“What happens if Filch spots it?” Colin asked.

“ _Nox_ ,” Mike said, and the light vanished. “And there’s one more, too — it’s called _Revelio,_ you know, like Madam Weasley cast on the two Maisies?”

“Pretended to cast,” Colin corrected. “She knew it wouldn’t work.”

“Yes, but the point is, it reveals spells. Professor Flitwick showed it to me, and I think I’ve got the hang of it. So if there’s a hidden door or something, I can probably find it.”

“Brilliant, Mike,” Maisie said. “I was going to suggest we split up —” Colin opened his mouth to object, then shut it again as she went on, “but you’re the most useful one of us. I think we should stick together.  Start on one side, and just work our way around.”

In the end, to everyone’s surprise including his, it was Colin who found the relevant doorway.  They were working their way down the west corridor, opening all the doors and peering inside, while Mike cast _Revelio_ on every blank wall, when Colin found a door that wouldn’t open.

He gave the handle a rattle. “Locked.”

“Let me,” Mike said. “ _Alohomora!_ ”

Something clicked inside the door, and when Colin tried the handle again, it turned.  Gulping a little, he eased the door open, Maisie and Mike peering over his shoulder.

It was another corridor, long and narrow, with only one other doorway at the very opposite end. Apart from that doorway, and a statue of some sort near it, the corridor was empty.

“Come on,” Maisie said, pushing past Colin.

“ _Lumos!_ ” Mike’s wand began to glow, and he followed Maisie, holding it high. Colin brought up the rear, pulling the door almost closed behind them, in case of Filch or Mrs Norris. In the wandlight, he could see the statue more clearly: a woman in some sort of armour, holding a sword with its tip between her feet and her hands folded on the hilt. There was something written on the wall above her, and he squinted, trying to make it out. _Woe_ _… betide …_ _who_ _…_

Maisie pointed at the other door. “It —”

Colin read _disturbs_ , and clapped his hand over Maisie’s mouth. With his mouth right by her ear, he murmured as quietly as he could, “Woe betide who disturbs my sleep.” He released her, and pointed to the engraved warning.

She nodded her understanding, and began to tiptoe towards the door at the far end of the corridor.

And hiccoughed.

She put both hands over her mouth, eyes wide, as all three of them froze. Nothing happened, and after a long moment they all began to creep forward again. They made it three more steps before Mike hiccoughed. A second later, so did Colin, and then Maisie again, the loud _HIC_ making it past her muffling hands.

And the statue came to life.

“WHO DARES DISTURB MY REST?” she roared in a surprisingly deep baritone voice.

“Um, we — _hic —_ are sorry,” Mike said. “Rea- _hic-_ lly sorry.”

The statute raised her sword, which was now on fire. “WHO DARES DISTURB MY REST?”

“Maisie,” Colin said, through the hiccoughs that were coming thick and fast now. “I think we should go.”

She set her jaw, the effect of her determined expression a little ruined by the hiccough that forced its way past her firmly compressed lips. “We’re three — _hic_ — students who wa- _hic-_ nt —”

Suddenly, the statute was swooping towards them, blazing sword held high above her head. “WHO DARES DISTURB MY REST!”

Mike and Colin ran. Maisie held her ground slightly longer, but when Colin yanked open the door and he and Mike piled through it, she was just behind them. Together they slammed the door and put their backs to it.

“Why did you have to get the hiccoughs?” Mike panted.

“You got them too!” she snapped.

“We all got them,” Colin said. “Was it Professor Flitwick’s cupcakes?”

Mike shook his head. “All they do is do a little dance for the students.” He paused. “But you’re right, Colin. We all got them, and they’ve stopped. Something in _there_ gave them to us.”

Colin nodded. “A two stage trap. Sound wakes up the statute, and something in the corridor forces you to make a sound.” 

“Probably Hungarian Hiccoughing Gas,” Maisie said. “You can get it from Weaselys’ Wheezes, my brother thinks it’s the height of humour.”

Mike’s forehead wrinkled. “Why would you use something from a joke shop making protections for a powerful magical object?”

“Maybe they didn’t,” Colin suggested. “I mean, there might be something else in there too, fire or something, that’s the real trap. The Hiccoughing Gas might have been accidental.”

“How do you accidentally release a gag gas in a locked secret corridor?” Maisie asked.

Colin shrugged. “Maybe they set it off somewhere else and there’s an air-vent or something and it just drifted in there.”

“Either way, it’s there now. There’s no way to get to that other door without waking the statute,” Maisie said.

“There is, though,” Mike said slowly. “Colin … remember the Boggart day?”

Colin shuddered. “I certainly do.” He’d been so terrified sneaking into the storeroom as soon as Professor Granger had left the room he’d almost rather have faced another Boggart. _Thank Merlin Mike_ _’s charm against her theft-detection spells worked._

“The lesson, that day, remember? Learning the theory behind the Solution to Hiccoughs.”

“I wasn’t really paying attention,” Colin said. “Having, you know, other things on my mind.”

“Well, _I_ was.” Mike grinned. “And I reckon I could brew it, too. It’s not that complicated.”

“We’d still need to get the ingredients,” Maisie said.

“I am _not_ getting another Boggart,” Colin said flatly.

“That’s the brilliant thing,” Mike said. “The ingredients are almost the same as Cinderjuice, it’s just the order and Flobberworm mucus that’s different. All we have to do is find Professor Granger’s teaching assistant and tell him we really want to learn to brew Cinderjuice, like he was going to teach us to, and just ‘waste’ some of the ingredients.”

“This is the same teaching assistant we accused of attacking Professor Granger and being about to kill us?” Colin said. “That one? The scary one with all the House point deductions and the glare?”

“Professor Granger said he had an odd sense of humour. That was probably all jokes.”

Maisie snorted — at least, it had to be Maisie, even though it didn’t sound much like her, because when Colin looked around quickly there was no-one else there.

“Even if they _were_ jokes, we have no idea where he is,” Colin pointed out. “Professor Granger said he was recluse, or whatever. Scarred. Never saw anyone.”

“I think we might know where he is, actually,” Maisie said slowly. “Remember that night we saw the three of them going into one of the doors in the dungeon corridor?  I asked one of the prefects what was down in that part of the dungeons, and she said, it’s where the Potions Professor used to live, but the door is locked now with wards no-one can break.”

“So?”

“So I know he must live around there somewhere, because when the Boggart came —”

“When you brought it into the school and let it out,” Mike corrected.

Maisie dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “He turned up, like, right away. Right after Professor Granger did. _Before_ Professor Potter. So I bet he’s in the old Potions Professor’s rooms, and that’s who they were visiting that night.”

“So all we have to do is find a way past unbreakable wards that have defeated everyone else in Hogwarts and probably Ministry Aurors as well, and persuade someone completely scary and absolutely terrifying that we want to brew a really difficult potion and then pocket some of the ingredients under his nose,” Colin said. “Are you _listening_ to yourself?”

Maisie shrugged. “We can always just knock on his door.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And how badly can this go wrong?


	60. Chapter 60: Severus Snape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape is not sure what Hermione is up to … but he's fairly sure he's not going to like it.

“Granger, what are we doing here?” Snape asked sourly. The wind off the Channel was what his mother had always called _a lazy wind_ — the kind that went straight through you instead of bothering to go around. The gravelly beach was deserted, even Muggles having better sense than to expose themselves to the weather at this time of year. The few people on the promenade were hunched, hurrying figures, clearly only here on their way to urgent business elsewhere.

And Hermione Granger, the wind already whipping strands of unruly hair loose from her messy coiffure, cheeks and nose pink with cold, who had no earthly reason to be here and even less to have insisted he accompany her.

 _In Muggle garb, no less._ He looked down at himself. At least his boots were his own, dragonhide and imbued with enough charms to let him kick a Flesh-Eating Slug in the mouth. And at least the rest was black. _That is all that can be said for it._ He turned the collar of his long black coat up for a little more protection against the gale and glared at Granger.

“I think it’s rather beautiful, at this time of year,” she said, apparently oblivious to what he was sure was one of his very best scowls. “Are you hungry?”

“No,” Snape said icily.

“I am. Fish and chips?”

“Given the house elves can prepare any dish you desire to far higher standards than any Muggle establishment, this entire excursion is —”

“Fish and chips only tastes right if you eat them by the sea,” Granger said, and blithely headed off in the direction of a small shop.

Snape stayed where he was. Cold as the beach-front might be, it was an infinitely preferable location than the interior of some shop crowded with Muggles. Staring at the waves rushing white-capped to the shore, he considered simply Apparating back to Hogwarts. _Clearly, this has nothing to do with the Quidditch Key_. The Invisibility Cloak was safely stowed in an inside pocket of his coat. A few moments to find an unobserved corner, a short walk from the main gates to his own quarters, and he could be once more warm and comfortably dressed. He could take the afternoon to consider how he was going to deal with the probability one of Granger’s Troublesome Trio would likely be knocking on his door in the next few days. Granger herself might wonder where he’d gone, but it would serve her right to spend her free afternoon hunting for him in Muggle … where-ever this was.

“Want some?” the woman herself said cheerfully from behind him. Snape turned, and was confronted by a bundle of newspaper. Granger ripped it open and the unmistakable scent of battered, deep-fried fish and potatoes wafted out. She picked out a chip and ate it. “Have one.”

“Thank you, no,” he said disdainfully.

“Oh, go on. This is the best chippy in Brighton. I’ve tried them all, so I know.”

Snape raised his eyebrows. “You spend your time assessing the culinary delights of Brighton?”

She offered him the bundle again. “Have a chip, and I’ll tell you.”

It wasn’t that he was curious, of course, about the way Granger chose to spend her limited free time. No, it was simply that it was his duty, as the former Potions Professor, to make sure that his successor was in all ways fit to teach the students of Hogwarts.

Severus Snape took a chip.

It was unreasonably hot, given the almost-arctic wind whipping around them both. Steeling himself for the discomfort, not to mention the indignity, he ate it. The exterior was crisp, but not crunchy — the potato inside hot and fluffy. He chewed and swallowed, surprised to find that Granger had been right — it certainly was superior to anything along the same lines produced in the Hogwarts kitchens.

He took another. “Brighton.”

Hermione nodded. “There’s something I do here. Usually once a month or so, sometimes more often. I was hoping you’d come with me, this time.”

Snape regarded her with narrowed eyes. “What sort of _something_?”

She laughed. “Not riding the carousel, or anything like that. You’ll see when we get there. Please. Professor?”

He sighed. “Granger, I have indulged this ridiculous excursion against my better judgement. The longer we linger here, the more likely it is that some stray witch or wizard will see me —”

“You know very well that I could tell when you cast a Disguising charm the moment we arrived.”

He glared at her. “And you know very well they’re not infallible, and work far better on owls than humans.”

Granger shrugged. “If someone from our world sees you, all they’ll say to themselves is, ‘how odd, that Muggle looks a lot like Severus Snape. Must be a cousin or something’.”

“And, oh, how strange, he’s walking around in company with Hermione Granger,” Snape sneered. “Why, I most certainly shouldn’t put two and two together.”

“Then we’d better get on, hadn’t we?” Granger said. “Just in case there’s some other witch or wizard in Muggle Brighton today.”

Snape hunched his shoulders against the wind. “Granger, I will accompany you on the condition that this is absolutely the last time you drag me half-way across the country to freeze solid beside the seaside.”

“Deal,” Granger said cheerfully, and led the way across the street. They walked a short distance away from the water, until Granger stopped in front of a door marked _East Brighton Community Centre._ “It’s in here,” she said, and opened it.

Snape followed her inside, glad at least to be out of the wind. Granger headed down an unlit set of stairs to the left of the door, bundling up her fish and chips as she did so. Snape followed — and then stopped dead as the sound of voices reached him, echoing up the stairs. “What is this, Granger?”

She turned to look up at him, face a dim blur. “I meet some people here. I usually come once a month or so, but they meet every week. Don’t worry, they won’t recognise you. They’re all Muggles.”

Snape stared at her. “Recognise _me_? Am I to understand that you expect _me_ to meet these Muggles?”

She nodded. “That’s why we’re here.”

He drew himself up. “That may be why _you_ are here, Granger. _I_ am here under false pretences.”

“Oh, come on.” She went so far as to take his arm and tug him down the stairs. “It’s an hour, and then it’ll be over.”

Short of physically dragging himself free, which would cause an undoubted ruckus in the earshot of an unknown number of Muggles, Snape had no option but to follow her.

At the very last possible second before pulling him through the door at the bottom of the stairs, Granger whispered, “I’m Helen here. You should think of a Muggle-friendly name, too.”

 _A Muggle-friendly name_ _…?_ His name had been perfectly adequate in childhood, thank you very much, when he’d been forced to interact with Muggles on a daily basis. _Including my father._ And if Hermione wasn’t a Muggle name, how by Merlin’s beard had her definitely Muggle parents come up with it? And what did Muggles think was an appropriate name, anyway?

He didn’t have any more time to think about it, because Hermione tightened her grip on his arm, opened the door, and dragged him into the room.

“I hope we’re not late,” she said cheerfully.

 _Strangers._ Snape’s stomach twisted. There was suddenly not enough oxygen in the air, and he felt his heart labouring to compensate. Everything in the room was vividly clear and very precise, as if someone had just cast a _Lumos Maxima._ The details assembled themselves in his mind without a second’s conscious effort. _Seven people, two female, Muggle clothes, no wands_. _All seated. In a circle — a ritual? Are there Muggle rituals? Average age, late twenties, two outliers closer to forty. Two with facial scars, one missing a leg — a Muggle prosthesis, is that even possible?_

It had been a long time since Snape had experienced this sense of hyper-alertness, these physical symptoms of the bowel-churning terror his disciplined mind rigidly repressed. _Five years, in fact._

_None of these people are Death Eaters. None of them are even wizards or witches, according to Granger._

Yet still, he found himself cataloguing every exit to the room — _two_ — gauging how far away the nearest of them was, shifting his weight subtly to the balls of his feet, fingering his wand through the sleeve of his Muggle coat.

“Welcome,” one of the older men said. “I’m Mark.”

“Anne,” the woman on his left said, the one with hair so fair it was almost white and the mottled white scar of an old burn spreading up her neck and over her jawline.

The others followed suit. The man with the metal of his artificial leg showing between the cuff of his trousers and his shoe was Evan; the woman with her hair in a crown of elaborate braids was Claudia. The remaining three men were Jeremy, who raised a hand in greeting that was so stiff and immobile it could only be another prosthetic; Walsh, who had similar scars to Anne but spreading down from beneath his woollen hat and closing one eye; and the other man close to Snape’s own age, Hassan.

None of them offered last names, or any other information. _Good_. If that was the norm for them, the few moments it would take for Snape to extricate himself from Granger’s lunatic escapade would be easy to navigate. “My name is Sebastian,” he said, and then, smoothly, “but I can’t stay.”

“But —” Granger said.

Mark spoke over her. “That’s fine. You’ll know when you’re ready, and we’ll be here.”

_Ready? Who are these people?_

_And what is the Hogwarts Potions Professor doing with them?_

“I may have a few moments,” Snape conceded coldly.

Mark smiled. “Then grab a chair.”

With Granger, Snape picked up a chair from the side of the room and carried it, inefficiently by hand, to the circle. Claudia and Jeremy shuffled their chairs aside to make room for them.

Snape sat down, crossed his legs and folded his arms, and regarded the assembly with narrowed eyes.

“Right, let’s begin,” Mark said. Everyone bowed their heads. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I can’t change, the courage to change the things I can — and the wisdom to know the difference.” Snape gave Granger an incredulous look, but her head was bowed with the others. _Religion? Muggle religion?_ He ran through what he knew about the topic, which was largely limited to the instances of greatest persecution of those believed to be witches or wizards. _Don_ _’t they usually assemble in large and impressive buildings?_

_Is this some kind of off-shoot? What do they call them, cults?_

“Who’d like to start?” Mark said.

There was a short silence, and then Hassan said, “A kid on the bus called me Al-Qaeda scum the other day.” It took Snape a moment to place the word. _Oh, yes, the Muggle war._ Minerva’s second-hand copies of _The Prophet_ occasionally mentioned it. “I wanted to punch him. No, I wanted to tell him what I’d done, I wanted to make him ashamed of himself. But I can’t, can I? If it gets back to the wrong people, that’s putting a bullseye on my back — and my kid’s. So I just got off at the next stop, him yelling out that I was a coward Paki bastard the whole time.”

“You have to walk away,” Claudia said, in a richly musical voice that reminded Snape of Kingsley Shacklebolt. “Like I do, when someone tells me I should go back where I came from.”

“It’s not the same, though, is it?” Hassan said. “You can tell them you’ve served. Wave your medals in their faces.”

“I know,” Claudia said. “I just meant — it sucks and you did what you had to do. You have a lot of guts, Hassan, and you show it every day.”

Snape cleared his throat, and when they glanced at him, met Hassan’s gaze.

It was ridiculously easy to skim the surface of a Muggle’s mind. _Anger, shame, pride_ … _a dusty field, a bearded man_ _…_

And then, shockingly familiar _—  fierce urgency, the need to remember every detail_ _… the constant gnawing terror of discovery_ … _face schooled to interest and agreement while nerves screamed revulsion and disgust_ _…_

Snape blinked, and broke the contact. _A spy. He was a spy in an enemy_ _’s camp._

He looked around the room. _Missing limbs_ _… burns … mostly young … wave your medals in their faces …_ There was no need to sample anyone else’s thoughts to confirm his suspicion, but Snape made eye contact with Anne — _thirst, fear, goddamn it this pack is heavy, go go go —_ and then Evan — _falling out of the sky, wind dragging at clothes, limbs, face and then a_ jerk _at shoulders and waist and the noise and the wind is gone and there_ _’s silence and floating —_

He turned to look at Granger, who was studiously avoiding his gaze. _Veterans. Not of our War, but of a war, nonetheless._

“Helen?” Mark said. “We haven’t seen you for a while. How have you been?”

“Good,” Granger said. She smiled. “Genuinely, I’m not just saying that. I started a new job, and there’s a lot of overtime, that’s why I haven’t been coming.”

“Still get those dreams you talked about?” Claudia asked.

Granger shrugged. “Not as much. I had … you know, I’ve never talked about it here, but I had an old injury. I just kind of lived with it, you know?”

“Sister, I know,” Jeremy said, waving at her with his artificial hand to general laughter.

“So someone — a friend — pushed me to see if there was something that could be done, and there was, and I got it done. It was hard … I mean, I made myself think of it like it was the colour of my hair, or something. Just one more insignificant thing about myself. And I had to think about it again, and about … what happened. But my friends helped me through it, and now, it’s really so much better, and I’m glad I did it. I can really leave it in the past, not just pretend to.”

“Half your luck,” Jeremy said.

“Sorry,” Granger said, with a smile. “I know that’s sort of … it was just, you know, a scar, really.”

“Helen, relax,” Jeremy said. He reached across Snape to pat her knee, with his prosthesis. “I’m glad for you. I’m glad you’re doing better. You look a lot better, these days.” He grinned. “You guys, remember when we first saw her? All hair and eyes and ready to run from the room or throw down if anyone raised their voice?”

 “I remember when I first saw _you_ , Jerry,” Anne said. “I asked you to give me a hand with a chair and you shaped up to me.”

More laughter, from Jeremy as well. “We’ve all come a long way.”

“Now we have another newbie,” Evan said. “Welcome, Seb.”

“Sebastian served in the same —” Granger said quickly.

“He can speak for himself,” Mike said firmly. “If he wants. And if he doesn’t want, that’s fine.”

Granger blushed dull red, and fell silent.

Snape suppressed a smile. _I knew there was a reason I stayed._

_I might have lost the ability to intimidate Granger, but clearly there are some who still retain it._

_Perhaps I can learn this one_ _’s secret._

“I’m not sure what I can say,” he said smoothly. “There are … considerations.” _Considerations like the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy._ “But I suspect Hassan’s experience … is not unfamiliar.” _Right down to being despised by those you strove to save, in fact._

“You’ve signed the official secrets act too, haven’t you?” Hassan asked.

“Something like,” Snape said, although he had no idea what the official secrets act was.  “So if you’ll excuse me, I’d rather not say anything more.”

“Helen’s always very mysterious too,” Claudia said.

Snape sniffed disdainfully. _I should hope so. Does she realise how close to the wind she_ _’s sailing with this charade? Does she think her friendship with Potter will protect her from the consequences, if she lets something slip?_

“How long have you been back?” Hassan asked. “About fifteen minutes, from the look of you when you walked in here.” That earned him stares from the rest of the group, and he shrugged. “There’s a reason they don’t rely on the Royal Marines to spot double agents, Evan. But I know the look of a man identifying all possible exits.”

“I find strangers … disconcerting,” Snape admitted. _Not an admission. A strategic statement._

“We’re not strangers,” Anne said. “We’re comrades-at-arms you haven’t met yet.”

“I don’t know the protocol here,” Snape said. “But if it’s allowed — what brought you here?”

“It’s not,” Anne said. “Allowed. Like last names. But I’m here because my squaddie stepped on an I.E.D. and turned me into crispy fried Lance Corporal and himself into red mist.” She paused. “I saw the outline under the dirt before he put his foot down. I didn’t get the words out fast enough.”

  “I never got hurt,” Claudia said. “I walked through the war like I had a charmed life. I have no scars. No proof.”

“I was the idiot who stepped on the I.E.D,” Evan said. “Lost my leg — three guys lost their lives.”

“And you, Seb?” Jeremy asked. “Why are you here?”

“Helen tricked me,” Snape said, so dryly the Sahara would have died of jealousy.

“Why do you think she did that?” Mike asked.

“Because she’s an interfering busybody.” Snape sneered, with a sidelong glance at Granger.

“I am an interfering busybody,” Granger said. “As well as an insufferable know-it-all. But coming here, helped me. A lot.” She paused. “We’ve all been through things that our friends, our families, can’t really understand, no matter how much they want to, unless they’ve been through them themselves. I was lucky to come through most of what happened to me with people who can understand, but there were some things that they didn’t share. That I didn’t think anyone shared.” There were nods around the room from the others.  “And I did trick you into coming here, so guilty-as-charged on that one, but I could just see your face if I suggested you find someone to talk about what … what happened to you, what you went through.” She glanced at him, and gave a flicker of a smile. “Sort of like that, actually.”

Snape glared at her. _You have no idea what I went through._ And thank Merlin for it, for hadn’t that been the entire point? That children like Granger wouldn’t grow to adulthood in a world where it was even _possible_ for them to know just how bad things could be? “As you very well know,” he said acidly, “it’s impossible for me talk about any of it.” _Especially here, to these Muggles_. He rose to his feet. “If you’ll all excuse me, I’m needed elsewhere.”

He was in a cold fury as he stalked up the stairs and out into the street. _Talk about what happened? As if burdening another soul with the knowledge that sears mine would serve any purpose other than to multiply misery._ He bared his teeth at the thought and a Muggle woman hurrying past flinched away from him.

Yesterday, sheltering with her beneath the Invisibility Cloak as the three miscreant students discovered the corridor, he’d been foolish enough, sentimental enough, to entertain feelings of collegiality towards her. The cold grey light of a winter’s day in Brighton showed that for the illusion it was. How could he be colleagues with someone who understood so very little of who he was, of what he’d done?

“Please wait.” That was Granger, hurrying after him.

Snape lengthened his stride, searching for somewhere to Disapparate. He could hear Granger trotting after him. The next moment she grabbed his arm.

He swung around, glaring down at her, and for once it seemed to make an impact on her. She shrank back a little. “I wanted to help —”

A silent _Muffliato_ and he could speak freely. “And what, pray tell, was that little charade supposed to achieve?” he snarled. “Enlighten me as to the fact that Muggles suffer injuries too? Thank you, Professor Granger, for that illuminating piece of obviousness. It might have escaped your shaky grasp of logic, but you can be assured I was well aware of —”

“Not all injuries are of the body.” Her voice shook a little, but she didn’t back away any further. “Mine weren’t.”

“You were cursed, you absolute dunderhead. Of course your injuries were physical — just magical.”

Granger shook her head. “Not all of them. Not the worst of them. Not seeing my friends die. Not thinking Harry had died. Not —” She hesitated. “Not seeing you die, as you know, because you saw my Boggart. Or knowing that Sirius died because I wasn’t persuasive enough to convince Harry it was a trap.”

“And your little group of Muggle friends immediately made it all better,” Snape sneered.

She flushed a dull red. “Not all better, and not all that quickly, either. But it helped. A lot. I was a mess, if you must know, after the War. I was terrified to sleep, because of the dreams. I was scared of people, open spaces, small spaces. Any loud noise and my wand was in my hand. I got frightened for no reason at all, or angry. I went to see someone, a therapist, and she suggested a group like this one — and it helped. Those people in there, they saw people they cared about die, as well. They know what it’s like to walk down an ordinary street and expect someone to attack you out of nowhere because that’s been what the world is like for too long. They know what it’s like to have people’s lives depend on what you do, and to never be sure you’re doing it right.”

 “Are you finished?” Snape asked. “May I expect you to unhand me now?”

“Please consider coming back,” she said, not releasing his arm. “If any of that sounds familiar, please consider coming back.”

“It does not,” he said coldly. “I assure you, very little frightens me, outside of the fortunately deceased Lord Voldemort. And when I get angry, Professor Granger, as I am now, it is for very good reason. Such as being tricked, and misled, and outright lied to by someone I should be able to trust.”

“Do you have nightmares?” she demanded. Snape opened his mouth to deny any such thing, but he was perhaps too slow, or perhaps Granger’s Legilimency was more proficient than she admitted. “You do, don’t you? I’ve seen you duel, Professor, and I know that you walked into that room and went on a hair-trigger just because there were people there you didn’t know. Don’t you want to stop feeling —”

“Feeling what?” He wrenched his arm from her grasp and took a step forward until he could glare directly down at her. “Do tell me, Professor Granger, what it is that you are so certain I feel. Betrayed? Hoodwinked? Irritated beyond all measure?”

 She gulped. “I’m sorry. I was trying to help.”

“The only help I have sought from you and your gaggle of Gryffindors is to break this thrice-damned curse!”

“That’s what I’m trying to do!”

“Don’t be absurd,” he snapped. “Your little Muggle cult couldn’t possibly —”

“It’s not a cult, it’s a support group, and you said it yourself a moment ago, magical injuries like curses have emotional effects.”

“That is not remotely what I said.”

“But I think it’s true,” Granger said eagerly. “I’ve been researching —” _Of course she has._ “And I think the curse is feeding on you. It’s mixed with Blood Magic, it must be, because it’s being cast through a Mark that is also a tattoo, of a type. And Blood Magic …”

“Is old magic,” Snape said reluctantly, following her train of thought to its conclusion. “Unreliable, unpredictable, and deeply entwined with the soul.” _Like Lily_ _’s pure love, able to protect her son long after her own death as long as a drop of his blood remained alive._

“The curse isn’t being cast by someone who hates you for betraying Voldemort, is it? It’s being cast by someone who hates you for what you did when you were pretending to be his follower. And it’s having an effect on you.” He raised his eyebrows disdainfully, but Granger shook her head. “No, Severus, don’t deny it. You said it yourself, when we were talking about Patience Monkshod. You said she _deserved_ her revenge. You have to fight it. You have to fight what it’s doing to you, the way I wish I’d known to fight what Bellatrix’s curse was doing to me.”

“The fact that you were able to conceal it as long as you did demonstrates that you _did_ fight it, to some effect.”

Granger frowned. “How did _you_ know?”

Snape shrugged. “The Granger of my classroom wouldn’t have been ashamed of her battle scars.”

“Well, the Severus Snape of _mine_ wouldn’t have lain down and died without a fight.”

“You have no idea who the man who taught you was, Professor Granger.” _Or what he was capable of_.

“Bollocks,” she said robustly. “I know he survived years of lying to the most powerful Dark Wizard and accomplished Legilimens in Britain. That demonstrates a certain determination to stay alive, to me.”

Snape sighed. “Granger …”

“If I’m right, this buys more time, doesn’t it? It might even weaken the curse enough for you to break it. And if I’m wrong, what have you got to lose?”

“Apart from my limited and precious hours of life?” he asked sourly. “Apart from my freedom, if I’m seen by someone from _our_ world?”

“There’s a spot at the back of the building you can Apparate directly in,” Granger said. “I’ll show you next time.”

He raised his eyebrows. “And why not today?”

She smiled. “I thought you might enjoy the fish and chips.”

He narrowed his eyes. Her theory about the curse was plausible, if only just, but he was certain she was not being entirely honest with him.

Well, he could bide his time. Hermione Granger might have many admirable qualities, or some, at least, but skill at deceit was certainly not one of them.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disguising Spells are mentioned as existing in canon, and as a way of avoiding owl post, but there’s no word on how they work, so I made it up.  
> Will Snape come back? And how will the Muggles cope if he does?


	61. Chapter 61: Michael Rowland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike takes a risk …

 

“I just flat-out lied,” Professor Granger said quietly.

Mike ducked back around the corner at the sound of her voice. _Buggering Boggarts, what_ _’s she doing down here at this time of night?_ The dungeons were usually deserted after dinner, and although Professor Granger’s office was down here, he knew very well that her rooms were over by Ravenclaw, having been caught by her out of the dormitory on his very first night.

“It was in a good cause,” Madam Lovegood said. “And it was a good lie, if he believed you. Wasn’t it, Ron?”

“Um, yeah,” Professor Weasley said. “I’m sorry, Hermione, my mind is still boggling a bit at the idea of S— _someone_ in a Muggle group therapy session.”

Professor Granger laughed a little. “It was quite the sight. Mind you, I thought he was going to hex me in the street, afterwards.”

“This is making me feel so much better about the whole ‘let’s hold hands and sing Kumbaya’ thing,” Professor Weasley said.

 “But Ron, you said he was quite nice, really,” Madam Lovegood said. “For him, I mean.”

“Nice? Pretty sure I didn’t nice.” Professor Weasley deepened his voice. “Weasley, if you believe that, possessing the knowledge you seek, I would pass it on to you to allow you to claim the credit, your intellect is even smaller than it appeared in my classes.”

“He didn’t throw you out. That’s something.” Madam Lovegood’s voice grew fainter. Mike risked another glimpse around the corner and saw the three teachers disappearing into the staircase.

He filed the conversation away to tell Maisie and Colin later, some detail about it nagging at him. _No time to think about it now._ He had a bare fifteen minutes before being out of the Ravenclaw Common Room or dormitories would earn him a point deduction, one that Professor Granger’s teaching assistant would be no doubt delighted to deliver. _And I know he_ _’s in there, because that’s who they must have just been to see._

He scurried down the corridor and knocked on the mysterious door. After a minute of fidgeting, he knocked again.

Still, no answer. _Can he even hear me, with the door warded? Well, yes, because most wards are designed to let the owner know someone_ _’s at them, right? And who it is._

He put his hand flat on the door and concentrated on the magic he could sense beneath his fingers. _Carry my message._ “I know that you’re in there, and I know you’re Professor Granger’s teaching assistant. I’ve come to apologise for the _Protego_. I hope it didn’t hurt you. And, um, I was wondering if you’d teach me how to brew Cinderjuice?”

Another moment’s silence, and then the door creaked open. Beyond it was a dark hallway. Mike took a deep breath, reminded himself that no matter how odd a teacher’s sense of humour was they absolutely weren’t allowed to transfigure, maim, or kill students, and stepped forward.

At the end of the hallway was a room that Mike could only categorise as the most grown-up wizardly room he’d ever been in. It looked like something from a magazine: the thick, ornate rugs scattered across the stone floor, the shelves and shelves and _shelves_ of books and oddments — here a jar with something floating in it, there a group of vials that glimmered in deep colours. A black armchair was set before a blazing fire, and at one end of the room an elegantly simple desk was cluttered with scrolls and books.

Apart from himself, though, the room held not a single inhabitant. Mike even checked the other side of the armchair, in case the teaching assistant’s odd sense of humour included hiding behind chairs. “Sir?” he asked hesitantly.

“I’m waiting,” a deep baritone voice said directly behind him.

Mike spun, and could see only empty air. _Invisibility. There_ _’s a spell for that, I read about it — Professor Granger did say he was disfigured._ “Sir. Um, the Cinderjuice, you see, I really think I —”

“I’m waiting,” the disembodied voice said coldly, “for your apology, Rowland.”

“Right, of course, well, I’m very, very sorry that I thought you were, well, dangerous, and that I cast the _Protego_ and I hope it didn’t hurt.”

“It did not.” The voice sounded disdainful. “While you have a competent grasp of the charm for a student of your experience, it was hardly of sufficient strength to hamper me, let alone cause injury.”

“I’m glad. It wasn’t at all my intention,” Mike said sincerely.

A sniff. “A shortcoming. Rowland, if you ever are in a situation that requires you to defend yourself, remember that until you are very competent, attack is the best form of defence. Hex first and hex hard.”

Mike frowned. “Professor Potter says —”

“Professor Potter.” The name was articulated precisely and with withering scorn.

“Well, he is my D.A.D.A Professor,” Mike said, feeling rather as if he’d just set foot on what he’d thought was solid ground but had turned out to be a portable swamp. “Anyway, I didn’t come to talk about hexing. I’ve been thinking about Cinderjuice, and I think I could actually brew it, but —”

“What happened to your conviction that it couldn’t be brewed by a student who hadn’t mastered Ash Muddler Potion?”

“I haven’t exactly mastered it, but I have been studying it, and I think I understand the theory. And the theory’s the important part, right?”

There was a moment’s silence — the kind of silence that had body, and personality, and whose body and personality were both quite unpleasant and decidedly intimidating. _I am going to kill Maisie Wilkins._ Except, this time, Mike knew he himself was partly to blame.

“Explain,” Professor Granger’s teaching assistant said at last. “And do so quickly, Rowland, because you have approximately seven minutes to secure my agreement to tutor you and then reach your common room before it will be my great pleasure to take fifty points from Ravenclaw.”

“Yes, sir,” Mike said quickly. “Well, the ingredients are completely different, but …”

It took him, by his best guess, three-and-a-half minutes before he ran down to silence.

There was another fifteen seconds of silence before the disembodied voice said, “Your conclusions are correct. Attend the Potions classroom tomorrow at six in the morning.”

“Thank you, sir!” Mike said.

“Now go.”

Mike fled.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter this time, but the next one is nice and long.  
> Which is scarier to a student? Invisible Snape, or visible Snape?


End file.
